The Daedric Researcher
by Moonstalker Nurbane
Summary: What Alzena, an apprentice secretly sent by the Imperial Academy to study daedra, left out of her reports. Dark themes, and a rapid downward spiral. (It's Skyrim.) Story was born late one night when I asked myself, "What are the daedra?" - not in game lore or Norse myth, but what they would stand for in real life. This was my disturbing answer. Constructive criticism welcome!
1. Solitude

Dear Master,

Thank you for granting me the opportunity to research daedric artifacts in Skyrim.

I pledge to study as many artifacts as I can for the continued safety of the Empire.

The Oblivion Crisis shall never repeat itself – the daedra shall never again strike us unawares.

Your servant,

Alzena

"Be careful when you peer into Oblivion, because Oblivion peers into you."

* * *

"Rogvir!" The screaming woman threw towards the man with a rope around his neck. Someone grabbed her. "Let me go! Rogvir! Don't let them do this!"

"Imperial bastards," a man near me muttered

I flinched. Of all the days to arrive in Solitude - or did they do this every day? I pulled my hood over my forehead, and sunk into my velvet blue robes. They wouldn't hide the fact I was a foreigner – they were standard Imperial Academy issue – but at least I felt safer.

A trio of men pumped their fists. "Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!" Another group joined in. "Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!"

Edging away, I sat on a wooden step. A brightly painted sign swung above me – "The Radiant Ramient". All the shops were locked, of course.

A soldier – in familiar Imperial colors – thrust the prisoner's head onto the block. An unnatural hush fell.

The prisoner's eyes blazed. "On this day," he pronounced, "I go to Sovengarde."

The axe fell.

His eyes bulged, and his mouth moved, as if to speak, or breathe. His body twitched in a gruesome dance. My stomach lurched, and I put my head in my knees. Someone brushed against my pack, and I scooted over to make room.

They were still there, though. I looked up, and blinked. It was a man, best described as reptilian, with a high forehead, sharp features. A foreigner, like me. I let out a sigh of relief.

"You're new here?" His slanted eyes fixed on me, belying his casual stance.

No sense pretending. I nodded.

"Perhaps we could be…friends." He licked his lips with a spindly tongue. "Name's Jaree-Ra."

"Alzena." I nodded again. If nothing else, the Academy had taught us manners.

"Passing through Solitude, Alzena?" His voice was warm and conversational – but it didn't match his face, which resembled a hungry lizard. "Maybe you're looking to make some easy gold, yes?"

Thankfully, I wasn't. The Master had sent me off with an enormous purse of gold, well enough to cover my research for months, if not more. More gold than I had ever seen before, although he undoubtedly had his position at the Academy to thank for that. The Academy and the castle went hand-in-hand. "No."

He shrugged an angular shoulder. "If you change your mind, I'll be over there." He pointed towards a shadowed pavilion, just out of sight of the busy stream of watchmen and priests and merchants.

With a start, I realized he was missing a finger. Quickly, I averted my gaze. "Thanks." He wandered off.

The crowd was dispersing in a buzz of whispers. I rubbed my eyes. The Master had told me to get settled in Solitude's inn, and that seemed as good a plan as any. Right now, I just needed rest.

Although I had spent little time in inns – the Master kept me busy – the inn, at least, felt cozy and familiar. It was only midday, but several of the tables were full. Mostly men. A man whose clothes bulged over his muscles – presumably, the innkeep – shot me a harsh look, and I hastened to the corner, my hood still pulled forward.

A man in a threadbare tunic slammed down a mug. "He died an honourable man. Skyrim's for the Nords."

"Bah." The scent of polish practically wafted from this man's crisp new leather armor. "Man's a traitor, deserved to die a traitor."

"Rogvir was an honourable man, no one's disputing that." This, from a man with grey streaking his unkempt beard. "But it had to be done." He shook his head. "Imagine, if they just let him go. The rebellion would take over."

I couldn't believe it. No one back home had said anything about a war.

I shoved the thought aside. My mission was important, more important than some petty war. The Master had drilled that into me the very first day of my apprenticeship. Our job was to protect the Empire – indeed, the entire world – from the true threat – the daedra. All other concerns paled.

If they knew the true threat of the daedra, they wouldn't fight among themselves.

A woman with limp brown hair came up to me. "Something to eat?"

My stomach still felt like a hand was squeezing it…but I needed to eat someday. "Sure." She turned, and came back with a bowl of stew, which she plunked down. I warmed my hands on the bowl. It looked hearty but bland – stringy bits of goat's meat, hunks of cabbage. I had a feeling I'd be eating a lot of cabbage.

"Bard!" The man in the slick armor rapped on the table. "Sing us a song!"

Blinking sweetly, a woman started strumming a lute. "Believe, believe, the Dragonborn comes."

"They teach you that drivel at the College?" The man scowled.

The innkeep came up beside him. "That's our story, and this is our land. We're Nords, mate. And wouldn't it be something if some Dragonborn came and saved us from those soldiers killing our boys."

The man narrowed his eyes. "You a traitor too?"

"No." The innkeep wiped his hands on his apron. "Just a simple Nord." He went back to the bar.

I gulped down the stew. I had less of a desire to stay here than before. Maybe Solitude had another inn.

What was I even doing here anyway? The Master could have left me better instructions. Asking me to look for daedric artifacts was like asking me to find a needle in a province full of haystacks – half of them buried under snowpack. And yet, all he'd said – cryptically, as usual – was that I wouldn't have to look too hard, for when you peered into Oblivion, Oblivion peered back into you. As if daedric artifacts just jumped into people's hands.

At least, starting off in Solitude made sense because it was big – maybe it had libraries, or something.

I dug into my pack to pay. Suddenly, my stomach lurched again, the taste of fat and meat rising to my mouth. Frantically, I emptied my pack onto the wooden table, spilling out quills, parchment, a tunic, smallclothes – hastily, I shoved those under the tunic. I stopped short of upending my daedric primers onto the table, though – I wasn't about to dump out banned books in a local inn. Not books that could get me killed. Like Rogvir.

But it wasn't there. No matter where I looked my coin purse was nowhere to be found.

What did they do to you here if you didn't pay?

My mouth dry, I sifted through everything again, in vain, and then shoved everything back into the pack.

The innkeep bent down beneath the bar. Glasses clanked.

Now was my chance.

 _Mara, hide me_ , I prayed, slipping out the door. As soon as I had crossed the road, I bolted into the crowd, stopping only when I got to the city gates.

The reality hit me like Solitude's grey stone bricks.

I was alone. I had nothing.

How did you get money? Did you just ask someone for a job? I had never had to work. Academy life was sparse, but they fed us twice a day, and gave us new robes every spring.

What _did_ people do here, anyway? Chop wood? Clear the fields? Clean the midden? I had never done any of that.

I _did_ know a lot about arcane languages, and daedra – but I was no alchemist. I didn't know how to translate any of that into gold.

My heart rushed. What else could I do? Begging? Pickpocketing? Selling myself at the tavern? By the Eight, _no_ – and I didn't even know how to go about any of that.

How would I explain to the Master that I had failed on my very first day?

My eyes strayed to Jaree-Ra's spot. Maybe he was still there.

Praying to all the gods I knew, I walked over.

He was sunning himself in the wan light, his eyes closed. As I breathed a sigh of relief, his eyes flickered open. "Back so soon?"

* * *

Author notes:

Welcome to the story!

The first couple chapters have been revised. (So, no, your memory isn't playing tricks on you!)

While I'm trying my best to follow game lore, in some cases, I've added more backstory to the secondary characters. Also, of course, Alzena's situation isn't part of game canon, although I'm trying to integrate it as a plausible "what if?"

Reviews and constructive criticism are most appreciated!


	2. The Icerunner

Dear Master,

I'm getting settled in Solitude. I met a guardsman today. He really helped me out. Still on the lookout for artifacts.

Your servant,

Alzena

PS Did you know there's a war going on here?

* * *

"Erm." I fiddled with my sleeve. "You said something about a job?"

He beckoned me forward, his wide smile still jarringly at odds with his somber eyes. "It's easy to find things to sell." The sunlight gleamed along the stump of his missing finger. "Things nobody will miss. Things from underground, or just left lying around in someone's house."

Just left _lying around_? That seemed unlikely. Artifacts, however, were a different story – that was what I was here for. Could this be one of the leads that the Master had told me about?

Had the daedra sent him?

He stretched out a spindly hand. "Why not take the next step? We can help each other. My sister Deeja and I are treasure hunters. We like to collect things."

Holding my breath, I nodded.

"I knew you looked like a clever one." His expression was unchanged, as if it had already been a done deal. "With the war, many more ships come through these docks."

The war again.

"Loaded with weapons and pay, but few people." His words now spilled out, quiet but fast. "We have an interest in one of these boats – the Icerunner. The Solitude lighthouse will be guiding it in…but if its fire were to go out, the Icerunner would go aground."

That brought back uncomfortable memories. I had just spent over a month on a boat. "So…you want me to put out the lighthouse fire?"

He glanced around. "What an interesting idea. I think if someone were to do something like that, there would definitely be a certain amount of loot to be…I mean" – he straightened up – "you would be well paid."

It sounded simple enough. After all, it was probably just a cargo ship, and sailors could swim, couldn't they? Besides, putting out a fire was nothing compared to the tasks the Master set me to, like distilling reactants and etching runes.

"I can do that." I hoped I could.

"Best if we spoke little until you've completed your task." He closed his eyes again, basking in the sun. "When you're done, meet me at the docks."

I nodded, and set off.

Purple mountain flowers fluttered in the breeze, and the tang of pine needles wafted by. I breathed in, and yet still felt clouded by unease. Why hadn't Jaree-Ra wanted to do this himself?

 _Tell the guards_ , a voice inside me nagged. _They'll help you out._

Or would they? Rogvir's body loomed in my mind.

Putting out the fire was easy - not a single guardsman. And, as Jaree-Ra had promised, he was waiting at the docks. In the distance, a man with a steel helmet yawned and scratched his back.

Jaree-Ra didn't look up. "You've returned." He lowered his voice. "The Icerunner failed to dock on time. It will have run aground on the coast. My sister Deeja will be at the wreck. She knows to expect you."

Suddenly, Skyrim didn't seem so gloomy anymore.

At least – not until I sighted the ship. It had indeed run aground and had settled at an unnatural angle. I understood at once what I had only read before - that ships were indeed living things, and this ship was empty and sad.

A man was pacing the deck. Feeling tentatively for a grip, I clambered up, as he dropped a piece of salmon and gaped. "You're the one who put out the fire in the lighthouse?"

I froze. Had someone seen me? That was silly – they probably worked for Jaree-Ra too. I nodded.

"By Talos." He shook his head. "An Imperial – a real Imperial – and barely out from under her mother's skirts."

Water dripped around us.

"Well," I said at last, "I'm hardly a Dunmer."

He guffawed, and the awkwardness passed. "Good work." He retrieved the salmon and hung it on a line. "Deeja's down in the hold."

Gingerly, I climbed down the hatch and along the rotting planks.

Suddenly, I tripped, fell face forward, and caught myself. How could I have not noticed this man sleeping on the floor?

His chest and legs were bare. Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I looked away. I had never seen an unclothed manfolk before.

No – wait – why would he be sleeping here? I willed myself to look back. His eyes were glassy. His chest had a broad gash.

Every bone in my body told me to run. But if I ran away now, what would I do? Steeling myself, I crept down towards Deeja, my eyes fixed on the planks.

As it happened, Deeja was so far down in the ship that I had to wade through pools of water to reach her. She was alone, and a rusty sword rested against the wall. She was engrossed in a ledger.

I shuffled uncomfortably.

She looked up. "My brother told me you were coming." Her expression was hard. "I'm supposed to give you what you've earned."

"Thanks." Maybe Deeja would give me enough gold so I wouldn't need to come back again.

"You've been useful." Closing the ledger, she reached for the sword.

I froze. Dimly, I remembered the weapons training at the Academy. If only I had paid more attention.

She lifted the sword.

I took off towards the deck.

"Guards!" Deeja's languid voice was muffled by the sea.

Footsteps loomed behind me. Real? Imagined? I pressed on, my boots pounding against the deck, up into the sunlight. The sudden light blinded me, but I kept going. Out of the corner of the eye, I noticed the sailor, his back turned to me, crouched down, fiddling with something. Thank Mara. I jumped from the prow into the shallow water, landing hard onto the rocks. My velvet robes hung heavily the water. Curse it. Frantically, I lifted up my robes, and splashed to the shore, then took off into the forest. Rocks turned into mountains. I tripped and fell, and got up and kept running, blood trailing from my foot.

"Hold there." A broad hand clasped me, and I struggled to break free. Both hands were on me now.

 _Deeja could be right behind me._

"What's the matter, lass?" I looked up into the squinting eyes of a guardsman.

 _Did he know?_

He let go. "Did someone hurt you?"

"I…." I looked back. Did I dare? "Y…yes."

His chest puffed up. "I thought as much. Our job is to keep this city safe." He leaned towards me. "Tell me where they went."

I pointed towards the Icerunner. "They – they were on the ship. The deckhands…." Tears flowed out, and, all of a sudden, I broke down crying.

"Oblivion take them. We lost good men on that ship." He patted my shoulder. "Fear not. You just head on home, and we'll take care of the rest." He started to walk, and then turned back. "We'll be back at the guard station…you could come see us later.."

Wiping my eyes on my sleeve, I nodded.

But as soon as I arrived back in Solitude, the word on the street hit me like ice.

Scores of sailors, swept away to sea.

Except for the ones who lay slaughtered on the decks.

It got worse. The Icerunner was not just any ship. It was an _Imperial_ ship, carrying weapons for the _Imperial_ soldiers.

I had not just committed sabotage. I had committed treason, and could be sent to the headsman.

 _Like Rogvir._

What would the Master would say?

And then, I knew.

He would want me to stop at nothing to succeed in my quest.

Besides...sailors got lost at sea all the time. That's why there were so many sad songs about them.

And...I wasn't the one who crashed the ship. If it was anyone's fault, it was Jaree-Ra's...or the captain's. Wasn't the captain responsible for his ship?

My foot wrapped in a cloth, I crept back to the Icerunner.

No one was there. The bodies were gone, and the planks were stained with blood. Jee-ra would not be coming back.

As I sifted through the rubble, I soon realized that Jee-ra had been right. There were indeed things that were just _lying around_ – a metal cup here, an iron blade there, a box and a blanket – things that no one would need anymore. And, it was easy enough to collect them.

No daedric artifacts, but enough to keep me alive, and to carry out my quest.

I seethed with anger and embarrassment, however, when I found a crumpled piece of parchment in Deeja's room. It read, "The poor fool who did our work at the lighthouse should arrive shortly. Make sure she is taken care of."

How could I have been so stupid? When was there ever an easy handful of septims?

I had been a fool – there was no doubt about that.

Still, after the dust settled, I realized that I had come out ahead. I now had bread and meat and a roof over my head, and I could get back to my task at hand.

And so, in between trips back to the Icerunner, I began to scour the city's temples and taverns, searching for word of the daedra.

* * *

Author note: This is, more or less, what my character did, although my character had a premonition (due to a saved game) that Deeja would kill her, so she crept up behind her and did a sneak kill with an axe she found on the ship.


	3. Sheogorath

Dear Master,

I spoke to a daedra today.

He gave me his staff.

Your servant,

Alzena

* * *

As it happened, I didn't find my quarry. Instead, my quarry found me.

Just like the Master had said.

The morning had started off like any other. Scurrying past the innkeep – who still scowled – I trudged up towards the Temple of the Divines, hoping to catch a glimpse of their archives. I kept my head firmly down - so far, no one had recognized me from the ship, but I didn't want to take a chance.

One of Solitude's ubiquitous beggars was camped out on the cobblestone street. "Why does everyone ignore me?" He cast puppy-dog eyes at me. "Why do you turn your heads? Why will no one help me?"

I pretended to ignore him. I didn't have gold to spare. Still…that could have been me on the street, if it weren't for Jaree-Ra.

He latched himself onto my feet, his tattered rags of red and yellow a-flutter. I grimaced. Why _me_? People were staring. The last thing I needed was to call attention to myself. It wasn't enough that I had been involved with the Icerunner; I was also scouring the city for forbidden gods.

"You!" His voice rose like a well-cast fireball. "You help people, right? That's what you do?"

A stench assailed me, as if he hadn't washed in months. Mud, and gods knew what else, was caked on him. Guiltily, I shook him off.

"Wait! Hear my plea!" He tugged on my hem. "My Master, he is between worlds, and I cannot bring him back."

What did he mean by _between worlds_?

The Master used to lock himself in the stone room at the top of the castle – sometimes, for days on end - with no sign of him except the scent of fire salts and bloodgrass incense drifting out. I would sit alone, copying old manuscripts to keep from thinking about what I would do if he never returned. He always did, though. He never told me what he was doing, and I never asked. Early on, he had taught me not to ask.

Against my better judgement, I bent down.

"My Master has abandoned me." Wracking sobs issued forth – from a grown man. I shifted awkwardly. "Nothing I can say will change his mind. Now he refuses to even see me. Won't you please help?"

What did he expect me to do? "I…I don't think I can."

"But…." The puppy-dog eyes again. He fingered my sleeve. "You know about _them_ , don't you?"

I froze. "Who?"

Leaves rustled. He leaned closer. " _Them_."

Mutely, I let him drag me to the local palace.

"He's there." A strange excitement tinged the beggar's voice. "He's waiting. The Pelagius wing."

This was ridiculous. Apprentices didn't just walk into palaces. Still, may as well humour him. My hood pulled forward again, I braved the doors. A whole complement of guards greeted me. Quickly, I chased down a woman who was sweeping and asked about the Pelagius wing.

She clenched her broom so hard her knuckles went white. "You want to go _there_?"

I nodded.

She pointed across the hall to a boarded-up door.

At least it was mostly out of sight. Praying that the guards wouldn't notice me, I pried one of the boards loose, jiggled the door-handle, and slipped in.

There, amidst cobwebs and relics, sat a nobleman at a banquet table. His jacket was richly dyed in indigo and burgundy, and silver locks framed his well-fed face. He extended an arm towards an empty place-setting.

Then he sniffed. "How rude!"

I gritted my teeth. It was just like being back at the Academy. Being a ward of the castle, sitting shoulder to shoulder with children of commanders and knights. They never let me forget. I bowed stiffly. "Sir, I am here to deliver a message."

His eyebrows wagged. "Reeaaaallly?"

And he was calling me rude? "Yes…really."

"Are you sure that's why you're here?" He scratched his stubbly chin. "Now, that's the question."

Nobles could be strange – our alchemy tutor used to say it was the lead on their goblets – but this was _very_ strange.

"Ooh, ooh." He clapped his hands. "What kind of message – a song, a summons?"

From time to time, the Master had showed me some true _summons_ – a fiery atronach, an ashen scamp, and – once, a hulking dremora lord.

I shuddered, and choked back a dark laugh. What would this portly gentleman do if he were faced with a towering demon of slate and flame?

"Wait, I know!" he wagered. "A death threat written on the back of an Argonian concubine!" He grinned so expansively, it was like the whole room grinned with him. "Aha," he confided, "those are my favorite."

My skin crawled. Hopefully he wasn't planning to mistake me for his Argonian maid.

"Well, spit it out mortal!" He pounded the table. Embossed porcelainware rattled. "I haven't got an eternity. Actually…I do. Little joke."

Maybe my classmates were right. People like me really didn't belong in castles. Best get this over with. "I was asked to retrieve you."

He laughed heartily. "Were you now? By whom?"

It hadn't occurred to me to ask the beggar his name.

He grunted. "Do you – tiny, puny, expendable mortal" – he glowered – "actually think you can convince me to leave? Because that's crazy. You do realize who you're dealing with here."

I didn't, and I didn't really want to know. I glanced longingly at the door.

He yawned, expansively, and sighed – seemingly, a mock sigh. "Here you stand before Sheogorath himself, Daedric Prince of Madness, and all you deem fit is to deliver a message?" He sighed again vociferously. "How sad."

I spluttered. _Daedric prince?_ Was this some kind of sick joke? Had someone caught wind of my quest, and put the beggar-man up to this?

He rubbed his hands. "I have a better idea. Why don't you come with me instead? Then Sheogorath can be your new Master." Wait, how did he know about the Master? "The narwhales…the dead, homicidally insane monarchs – and – oh-ho-ho – the _cheese_."

This wasn't a joke – it was, truly, madness.

"I already have a Master." I edged towards the door.

"Yes, yes" he agreed affably. He then chortled. "Ha! I do love it when the mortals know they're being manipulated. Makes things infinitely more interesting."

Then he grinned again. "How many mortals could a demented daedra need?"

What was that supposed to mean?

He regarded me keenly, and, all of a sudden, he seemed very sane. More than sane – terrifying, tremendous. Beneath my robes, my legs shook. "Soon you will wish you had taken my offer. You still can. On one condition. You have to find the way out first. Good luck with that."

Frantically, I whirled towards the door, expecting to find it barred.

But it was still open.

With that he was gone, a wooden staff in his place. I stared at it, like it was a sewer rat ready to bite.

I could have just left it. Maybe I should have just left it. But…a vague energy danced up from it, like the runes that the Master enchanted.

Gathering it up, I fingered it thoughtfully.

Had this man – this _Sheogorath_ – really been one of those that I sought?

The very word _daedra_ conjured up images of demons and hellspawn – not spoiled noblemen who had tipped too many ales and slipped past their prime.

If only the Master were here. There was no one else I could talk to about this.

 _The daedra will deceive you_ , our tutors had warned us. _All they want is your soul. Once you pledge it, you can never take it back. You will spend eternity in Oblivion with them._

And this _Sheogorath_ had, so casually, asked for my soul.

I shuddered. What would have happened if I had said _yes_?

The Master had often spoken to me, in hushed tones, _about_ daedra.

But had he ever spoken _to_ daedra?

* * *

 **Author note:** One simply cannot discuss Sheogorath without mentioning the cheese.


	4. The Arcaneum

Dear Master,

I have made my way to an immense college of the arcane. I am learning more there about the inhabitants of Oblivion. It is fascinating! I will send you my notes.

Your servant,

Alzena

* * *

"Yes," the shopkeeper in Solitude complimented me, "much better. This will fetch you a pretty penny." Bronze curls dangled into her face as she squinted at the staff. "Much more than that moldy old plate you tried to pawn off on me the other day."

"Oh, I'd love to sell it to you," I apologized, "but my Master would never let me-"

I clamped my mouth shut. First rule of the Academy – keep the apprenticeship secret.

Fortunately, she was still busy running her fingers along the wood. "The College," she mused. "Yes, someone at the College might know what it does."

"The Bard's College?" I asked in confusion. With its fluted ramparts, it was the most prominent school in Solitude.

She laughed. "Sorry, I keep forgetting you're not from around these parts. I meant the College of Winterhold. It's a school for those mage types."

A mage school – brilliant! I could carry on my research as I was trained to – from the warm safety of their libraries. They might even need scribes, or tutors.

And so, I emptied my coin-pouch to pay for a carriage. The mountains sped by, and snowdrifts soon gave way to snowpack, until I soon found myself inside the College's stone towers.

There, I encountered an orcish library-master whom a girl my age had called by the curious name of Urag gro-Shrub. His greenish skin was overshadowed by a bustling white beard, hacked into submission – _like a shrub_ , I thought, and suppressed a giggle.

Ulrag glowered. "You are now in the Arcaneum, of which I am in charge."

The _Arcaneum_ – what a name!

"It might as well be my own plane of Oblivion," he warned me. "Disrupt my Arcaneum, and I will have you torn apart by angry atronachs."

I gasped. Did they banter about the forbidden at this College so freely?

Urag rapped his enormous desk for emphasis. "I don't care if you wrote it yourself. You want a book, you get it through me."

"Understood," I replied, basking in the scent of oil-cloth and leather, the charcoal bite of fresh ink. Meticulous rows of scrolls and books lined up like soldiers in Urag's private army.

"The archmage approves of _nearly_ all research," he continued. "A mage is only as good as what he knows. I try and make sure as much knowledge is available as possible."

Suddenly, I remembered my books. I had been afraid to show them to the shopkeeper in Solitude. Reaching into my pack, I dug beneath my worn change of clothes, and held out my daedric primers. In turn, he grasped a handful of gold coins from a rickety iron box, and dropped them into my outstretched hand.

"The Arcaneum is always accepting new volumes," he pronounced. "I'll take what I can get."

Even better – Urag had a number of scrolls that needed copying. It was tedious work, and made my hand ache – but the Master had made me do it enough times that I could trace out reed-thin letters without smearing the ink.

In return, Urag spoke to the arch-mage, who let me take meals with the students, and lent me a bed-roll.

The real reward, however, came on the day when Urag hauled out a ponderous, antiquated chest, and unlocked it with a key from his massive brass ring. I coughed at the dust clouds.

"We've been keeping this collection since the Second Era," he announced, beaming. "Books have come and gone during that time, but it's mostly intact. I don't want to see you treating any of these books poorly."

"I'll be very careful," I promised, and meant it. Cautiously, I extracted the tomes and scrolls, fearful they would crumble to pieces. They smelled of animal-skins and must. It really had been some time since someone had gone through them.

I remained in the library long after sundown, as Urag manned his post with almost a smile. Eventually, he retired, and I remained, my eyes glued to _The Mad God_ and _The Doors of Oblivion_.

"Sheogorath is already inside each of us," some long-past soul had inscribed on the parchment. "You have already lost."

I dug deeper, and, in my excitement, nearly missed the unadorned leather-bound tome. Brushing off the cobwebs, I leaned closer to decipher its faded title: _Encounters with the Daedra, With an Appendix on the Flora and Fauna of Skyrim. By Master Yoneleth, Imperial Academy of Cyrodiil._

What?

Glancing around furtively, I opened the book. It was, without a shadow of doubt, my Master's hand.

The pages were crammed – even the margins were choked with timelines and translations.

I flipped through the pages, and mouthed the precisely scribed headers – Sheogorath, Azura, Boethiah, Dagon. _Dagon_? I shivered – even the smallest child in Cyrodiil knew how Dagon had invaded our world. This was the entire reason why we had a Department of Daedric Studies – to prevent the daedra from threatening us again.

Furtively, I clasped the book under my robes, and stole to my bed-roll, where I continued reading by the light of a candle.

I learned that, long before his hair had gone grey, my Master had travelled to Skyrim like me. He had embarked on the same quest – to learn more about the daedra – and had climbed the treacherous mountains to explore several shrines. One was actually not far from the College – it was built by the dark elves for a lady named Azura.

I would have to ask around about that.

In the chapter on Dagon – the name still filled me with distaste – the Master had even painstakingly etched a dagger, complete with jagged runes on its hilt, which gleamed with the same vermillion and indigo inks that my Master had taught me to mix.

I looked long at the picture. I was sure I had seen it somewhere before.

All of a sudden, I sat up, startled. I _had_ seen that dagger before. The Master kept it locked up in a chest. He did not show it to outsiders.

Why hadn't the Master told me this?

Why hadn't he told me he had been to Skyrim?

And, if he had already been here himself – then what was I doing here?

I had almost been killed, and had nearly starved. A daedric lord had even petitioned for my soul.

 _Was the Master trying to get rid of me?_

 _Was he trying to condemn me to Oblivion?_

I couldn't fathom why he would do such a thing – although joyless, he was never cruel – but the questions lingered, long after the candle had burnt out.


	5. Experiments

Dear Master,

I read something in the library that has left me deeply perplexed. I'm sure you can explain it when I return.

Your servant,

Alzena

* * *

Lighting crashed, and I jumped out of my bed-roll. The students must have already started practicing for the day.

Throwing my robes over my shoulders, I rushed towards the Arcaneum.

Urag was already at his desk. He was bent over a frayed book. "Morning, Alzena."

"Good morning, sir."

"Find anything interesting in the collections last night?"

 _Did he know?_

"Yes, sir."

He turned a page. His eyes were still buried in the book. "That's what a library-master likes to hear."

Tripping over a chair, I settled myself on my rough stool and resumed the _Song of the Alchemists_. Yesterday, I had enjoyed copying the rhyme on _oils_ and _boils_ , _mixings_ and _fixings_ – after all, the Master used to have me prepare his augmenting potions – but, today, the words made no sense.

 _What else hadn't the Master told me?_

Lapis lazuli tincture smeared across the page. Guiltily, I slid the parchment under an old folio, and started afresh. The flickering braziers were making my head pound.

At noon-bell, I escaped to the main hall. Boys and girls about my age were milling around, carrying wax-tablets and vellum, sweetrolls and scrubbing-brushes. It reminded me of the Academy.

Well – except for the giant _thing_ floating over the fountain. I had no idea what to make of it. It gleamed menacingly and was emblazoned with no letters that I had ever seen. They certainly weren't daedric.

It must be some mage thing.

Voices drifted over to me.

"So, as I was saying, the first thing to understand is that magic is, by its nature, volitle and dangerous. Unless you can control it, it can and will destroy you."

"Sir, I think we all understand that fairly well. We wouldn't be here if we couldn't control magic!"

"Of course, my dear. Of course. You all certainly possess some inherent natural ability. That much is not being questioned. What I'm talking about is true control, mastery of magic. It takes years, if not decades, of practice and study."

"Hey." I looked up at a gangly girl, her thin, ash-grey face swallowed up by an enormous hood. "Haven't seen you around here before. Are you in Restoration? No, wait, don't tell me. Necromancy? That's it, isn't it?"

I shuddered. "Gods, no." I had once stumbled upon a young man behind the shelves, a library book in one hand and a dead rat in another, its paws twitching as he chanted.

A horrific thought hit me. _Had our tutors at the Academy risen corpses too?_ I pictured them with their stolid, wizened faces, rapping us on the knuckles for staring out the window-grate in class...

"It's all right if you are," she said. "You can still help me. We're all trying to become better mages, right? I need someone I can practice a few spells on. Nothing dangerous, really."

There was a lull in the conversation, and I realized I was supposed to say something. What had she been talking about? Spells? Needing help?

"Sure," I said, figuring it was a safe answer.

"Now please," she instructed, "hold still, and don't move." There was a bright flash of light, and I squeezed my eyes closed.

"Oh dear," she was saying. "That wasn't supposed to happen….Do you feel all right."

Frantically, I opened my eyes and looked around, as if there might be demons. "Why? What's wrong?"

"You look very, umm, green."

I looked down at my hands. They were the emerald green of the grasses of Cyrodiil.

"It matches your eyes," she said hopefully. "Just wait. Just…I can fix this. Oh no, that's not it at all. Let me try again."

"You know," I said, "I think I'll just head back upstairs for now."

"It'll wear off soon!" she called after me. "I promise!"

I wanted to crawl back into my bed-roll and hide. But, at the same time, I didn't want to be alone.

So, I climbed the stairs, past the Arcaneum, until I found myself somewhere where I had never been before. There were many chambers. One smelled of snowberries; another of flame. A third held a glowing summoning circle.

It reminded me of my Master.

"Apprentice," a pale man barked. His head was either bald, or shaved, and his left hand had a nervous twitch. "Make yourself useful and give me a hand with these runes."

I obliged, taking a handful of fire salts and sprinkling them over the calligraphy etched in the sand.

"A little green today, are we?"

"Yes, sir." Heat rushed to my cheeks.

"Apprentices and their fashions," he grumbled, picking up a staff that had been standing in a cracked urn. "You might want to step back. There's a big one coming through."

He didn't need to tell me twice. The Master had summoned enough creatures to instill in me a healthy respect for all things otherworldly.

The air crackled, and growls echoed off the masonry.

"Yrrgh." A disembodied, rocky hand swiped towards me. I leapt even further back, although the circle held.

The growling grew more insistent. "Yrrgh!"

"By the Lady's backside," the magister muttered. "Down, fiend!" He pointed the staff at the creature and uttered an unfamiliar word. The air crackled more fiercely.

"Apprentice," he shouted, still facing the circle, "I hope those colleagues of mine taught you to trigger wards."

Quickly, I set the ruby etchings ablaze. With a rush of air, the construct disappeared – literally – back into Oblivion.

Setting down the staff, the magister extracted a neatly folded kerchief from his robes, and wiped his forehead. His face was flushed, and he had deep shadows under his fierce blue eyes.

Maybe he didn't sleep well. My Master didn't. I had never told him that, at night, I could hear his screams even through the stone walls.

"Hope I didn't put you out too much," he said. "We deal with dangerous things here."

"It's all right," I said. "My Master –" Emotions flooded through me, emotions that I didn't understand.

"I mean," I continued lamely, "I used to work for a mage."

He looked up, and for the first time really seemed to see me. Then he dug through a wooden crate and handed me a delicate bottle. "Take this. It's one of my special brews."

I sniffed it. I didn't recognize it. I hoped it was nothing strange – I'd had enough strange for one day – but I didn't want to be rude, so I gulped it in one draught.

His eyes flickered over me, and, for some reason, I felt shy.

"Looking a lot less like a sick ash scamp," he said.

"Thanks."

He stepped closer to me. I could feel the warmth of his body. "So, umm – "

"Alzena," I supplied.

"Gestor, Phinis Gestor. Alzena, what are you studying?"

"Oh," I said, "I'm not really studying here. I just work in the library."

"I see." Abruptly, he walked to his workbench, and busied himself with arranging the bottles. Then, he re-stacked a couple of crates.

Finally, he turned back to me. If anything, the shadows beneath his eyes seemed to have deepened.

"You seem to be a little less flighty than the rest of them lot," he said. "I could use some decent help here – if, of course, old Urag can spare you from his 'little plane of Oblivion'."

I laughed. He certainly had Urag pegged. "I'll do it," I said.

* * *

 **Author notes:**

 **Stef** \- Thanks for the review! It's encouraging to know that people are reading. (Easter egg: Your review might somehow mysteriously be embedded in the next chapter.)

 **Jackrabbit55** and **RealmStriderShadow** \- Thanks for the follows. Hope you like the next chapters!


	6. Summonings

Chapter 6: Summonings

Dear Master,

I chanced upon a mage here who knows of the daedra. I am taking careful notes on what he says.

Your servant,

Alzena

* * *

The next morning, when I came back upstairs, Gestor scrambled out of his chair and smoothed his deep red robes.

"You're back," he said. "Didn't think old Urag would let you go."

He disappeared into the hallway, and came back with a chair in one hand, a mortar and pestle in another. "Take care of those herbs," he said, pointing at a pile on the table.

I tossed the nimroot into the bowl and began to crush it.

We chatted as we worked. Or, rather, Gestor did. He spoke at length about the creatures he had called to his circle – the ash golems, the bonemen, the revenants, and the thralls – and how he had forced them all to his will.

Well, the ash golem hadn't worked out so well the day before, but it was politer not to say so.

He set a bundle of minty herbs on the table in front of me. "You're different," he remarked. "Those simple-minded fools downstairs – they can't abide a scholar whose very work is Oblivion. Even the other mages rarely come up here."

"Peer not too deeply into Oblivion," I intoned, mimicking the Academy's priest, "lest Oblivion peer too deeply into you."

His blue eyes sparkled, and he remained standing by me while I chopped the herbs.

I started to suspect that, perhaps, Gestor had spent so much time with demons, he had forgotten how to deal with ordinary people.

I understood – the Master had been the same way.

As I plucked off flower petals and dropped them into a wooden bowl, he told me of how – under the light of the last full moon – he had subdued some invaders with naught but a pair of atronachs, while the town guard "ran hither and thither, like a flock of scared chickens".

I hadn't realized that Winterhold had been under siege so recently. Perhaps, that explained why everyone at the College seemed so on edge. One of the mage-women, in particular, glared at me every time I walked past.

"You seem to know a fair bit about summoning," he said abruptly. "Ever tried it yourself?"

I stopped chopping, and looked up in astonishment. "No – I mean, I know how it works – it just never occurred to me – I mean, it's dangerous…."

He leaned even closer to me. His intense stare unnerved me. "Alzena, the world is dangerous. If you can't take care of yourself, you need someone – or something – who can." He fiddled with the fringe on his robes. "A young lady like you shouldn't be wandering around alone."

"I could hire someone," I suggested. "I mean, when I get more gold." There were men, and even women in town who hired themselves out as guards.

"No," he said earnestly. "Never trust anyone." He walked to the window. His back was facing me. "If they're strong enough to fight for you, they're strong enough to turn against you. Only trust what you can control."

He selected a beaten tome from his vast shelves. "Why don't you give it a try? I'll be here in case you need help."

I considered it. My Master had never encouraged me to call my own summonings, but he had never forbidden me either.

"All right," I said, and bent over the summoning circle to adjust the runes.

"A little more to the left," he instructed.

I tinkered a bit more, and then opened the book to the first chapter. My tongue stumbled over the heavy, unfamiliar sounds. Suddenly, something tugged at my mind.

 _Stone, all around me. And prey - fleshy, slow. I growled._

My Master had never told me about _that.  
_

"Well done," Gestor said. "You've bound it well. Now, try to move it."

 _My paw inched forward. An anger rose up in me. I howled._

"You're doing it."

All of a sudden, something snapped, as if someone had been pulling the other end of a rope, and then dropped it. The wolf was gone.

"Not bad." Gestor's eyes were shining. "Not bad at all. I've seen a lot of worse first tries. Keep it up."

"I will," I said – and I did. I didn't want a repeat of what had happened on the Icerunner.

And, I felt a thrill of pride as I called my first flaming atronach.

 _Flipping through the air - such fun! Fire brimmed inside, eager to come out._

I imagined an invisible foe, and the atronach gleefully cast down balls of flame. I smiled.

I was raking out the sand in the summoning circle, one day, when I decided I could broach the question that had been nagging me.

"Magister," I asked, "do you know where the Shrine of Azura is? I heard it's nearby."

He set down his quill and faced me. His voice was sharp. "Why do you want to know?"

"I…." Why _did_ I want to know? I had read, and re-read my Master's book so many times that I could picture the icy, foreboding shrine as if I had been there myself.

"A scholar of my stature is not ignorant of such things." He continued writing, but his hand was twitching again.

"Can you tell me where it is?" I prompted.

"Of course."

By the Aedra, Gestor certainly could be infuriating – he put my Master to shame. " _Will_ you?"

He rose, and walked over to the summoning circle. He ran the obsidian pebbles through his hands. "Alzena…I – we – we had a colleague who was heavily involved in some…matters…surrounding a trinket of Azura's. He – well – to be blunt, he went mad. He did a lot of horrible things that no one could fathom." His hand was on his temples now, covering his face. "It was…a trying time."

"Like what?" I asked, even though I felt that I shouldn't.

"I don't want to give you nightmares. What we do here is terrifying enough. I – we – we lost many our own."

"Was it Azura's fault?" I asked, fascinated.

His eyes searched the arched ceiling. "I don't know. I…I was never as involved. I just dabbled in it, really. Valen – my colleague – he tried to cross her, to steal from her. Maybe he just got back what was coming to him. But, when you look at the shadow of a man Nelacar's become…."

"Who's Nelacar?"

"One of the mages. He was, anyway. They let him go." He ran his hand through few hairs that clung to the side of his head. "Anyway, if you ask him, he'll tell you how all the daedra are evil."

"Are they?" The Master had never opened up to me like this before. His talk of the daedra was always in hints and whispers.

"They're powerful," he said. "That's all you need to know. A wise mage knows his limits. Even a first-year apprentice will burn himself with a fireball."

He paused. "Besides…our work here is the daedra."

My eyes widened.

"Oh, not the daedric lords. They wouldn't take too kindly to being dragged into my tower. You want to invoke them, you do it on their terms. But the things we summon here – they're just undersized daedra."

He chanted a few words, and a steel sword came into being. "This, here, it's not going to object much. But the more powerful, the more intelligent a creature is, the more it resents being dragged to our world. It resents it even more when we tell it what to do. That's why – sometimes – we need special enchantments to bind them to our will."

I glanced towards his staff. It was standing like a worn-out soldier in its usual place in the urn. Its deep red matched his robes, and the wood was splintered. "Like that?" I asked.

"You're a smart one."

A thought crossed my mind. "I…erm…I came across a staff a while ago. I haven't shown it to anyone here yet."

"This is a mage-college, Alzena. Everyone has a staff."

"Right," I replied, "but a shopkeeper told me this does something special."

"Bring it to me," he commanded. Hurrying downstairs, I took it from where I had hid it under my bed-roll, and then rushed back up. I handed it to him, and he started, as if the staff were a serpent.

"You didn't just _find_ this," he accused me. Cautiously, he brought his good hand to it and explored the grooves in its wood. Where did you get it?"

"Well," I stammered, "someone gave it to me…."

He gave me a harsh stare. "First Azura, and now this? Alzena, what's going on?"

I felt like I had been struck.

"Alzena…maybe you can't sense it – yet – but, to someone who is more…attuned…to these things, it is obvious." He handed it back, almost as if he didn't want to touch it. "This has been in the hands of a daedric lord. No one and nothing they touch is unchanged."

Any lingering doubt that I had really seen Sheogorath fled.

"What does it do?" I asked.

His eyes glinted, a hint of rust against a savage blue. "There are powerful spells," he said, "which can bind creatures more permanently and stronger to your will."

"Like what?"

"You could summon an unbound dremora."

I nearly fainted. I couldn't imagine having one of _those_ in my mind. "So _I_ could do that with this staff?" I wasn't serious.

"Theoretically, yes."

My jaw dropped.

"But there are risks," he continued. "There are always risks – even for one as skilled as I." The shadows under his eyes seemed to overwhelm his face. "Never summon something you can't control, Alzena. Never summon something you can't control."

His voice lowered, and I had to strain to hear it. "It could drag you all the way back to Oblivion."


	7. Ilianata

Chapter 7: The Apprentice

Dear Master,

I fear I have tarried too long at this College. I am continuing my search in town.

Your servant,

Alzena

* * *

As I walked up the stairs to Gestor's workshop the next morning, voices echoed down the stone hall. That was odd – Gestor avoided the other mages almost as fanatically as they avoided him. Without thinking, I stopped to listen.

"Were you even planning to report it was missing?" It was a woman. I couldn't place her voice.

"Books come and go." This was Urag. He sounded subdued.

"I can't believe what I'm hearing."

"You're overwrought, as usual," Gestor said - by now, I'd recognize his voice anywhere. "Perhaps you had ought to visit the town thaumaturgist for some soporifics."

"Urag, this book was supposed to be kept under lock and key. How did she get her hands on it?"

"It was…erm…in the special collection from the Second Era."

"So you're telling me she broke into an irreplaceable historical archive, _and_ stole the Academy's book?"

"I have yet to hear anything but speculation and bluster," interrupted Gestor. "The girl has been nothing but help."

"I'm sure she has. Did you even ask yourselves what she is doing here?"

"Your paranoia is exceeded only by your poor taste in dress."

"Mirabelle, Gestor, please." It was the archmage. My heart began to beat faster. "This isn't helping. Gestor, this brings me to something that I've been meaning to discuss with you. You have no right to train this girl."

"She's talented."

"That's beside the point. If she wants to study here, she needs to go through admissions like anyone else. And, you know full well that even if she were accepted…."

"Say it. I dare you. Say it to my face."

There was a sigh. "Gestor, no one is accusing you of anything."

"Oh, I don't know _how_ the Council left me with that impression."

"It's for your own good. When four students go missing in one semester – "

"I care about all my students."

"As do we all."

"Like Ilianata?" This was the woman again.

"Mirabelle, that was uncalled for."

"Utter that name again, _sharmat_ , and I'll hurl you so far into Oblivion that the Lady won't know what hit her– "

"Enough," said the archmage. He sounded tired. "Leave the past in the past. We've had enough problems since we unearthed that infernal Psiijic orb. We don't need any problems with the Imperial Academy too. There's a war going on, and I intend to stay out of it. Take the girl to the Jarl and inform him of the theft. The matter is closed."

I slipped into the pantry and huddled against the wall, hugging my knees. Tears streamed silently onto my robes.

One…two… three sets of footsteps echoed down the stairs. Wiping my face with my sleeve, I went into Gestor's workshop. Wooden crates were overturned, and an empty phial lay cracked on the ground.

"I'm sorry," I said.

He whirled around, his hand raised. I flinched. "Who are you working for?" he demanded.

"I…," I stammered, "I can't tell you."

He kicked one of the crates. Priceless fire salts flowed out.

"Nelacar," he finally said.

"What?"

"He's down in that ramshackle town. Knowing him, at the tavern. That is what you were sent here for, to find Azura?"

"Yes."

He was sweating again. His eyes were ablaze, as if he were not a man but an atronach. Absently, he stripped off his fur cloak and cast it to the ground.

He sifted through another bin and produced a murky-looking phial, and handed it to me.

The bottle was clammy. Curiously, I popped the cork. It smelled of the tubers that grew in the swamps – taproot, they were called. Why anyone would want to drink that was beyond me.

He stood over me, expectantly. "Drink," he commanded.

I obeyed.

My skin tingled. Sunlight flooded my eyes. I thought I should sit, but my chair was too far away. I knelt onto the ground, instead. Obsidian pebbles bore into my legs.

"They won't harm you," the magister was saying. "They won't take you away again."

I thought I should say something, but couldn't remember how.

He lifted a red staff and chanted unintelligibly. A snake crawled through my mind. Without my telling them to, my hands loosed my hair from its tie. Dimly, I felt it cascade down my back.

"Ilianata," I heard. "Ilianata."

The world went black.

When I came to, I was leaning against a shack at the edge of town. Water had puddled beneath me, but mossy beams kept off most of the snowdrift which was rapidly hiding the footprints that led to the College.

All I could think of was an icy hand, gripping my mind.

After that, I couldn't remember anything that had happened.

Slowly, I tested my fingers. They worked, as usual. They didn't move on their own accord.

Suddenly, I remembered Solitude. I felt around until my hands met the smooth leather of my pack. My smallclothes had been folded into neat squares, and the Master's book was wrapped in an oilcloth, next to my coin-purse. Sheogorath's staff was woven through its straps, and I was wrapped in a fur cloak.

Idly, I brushed sand and fire salts off of my robes. The College's towers loomed above me.

Perhaps, the Aedra were punishing me for deviating from my mission, tarrying too long at the College.

Was my mission even still the same? I had no idea. I watched the snow blanket the pitiful houses of Wintherhold. One thing was for sure - I couldn't stay here.

Shouldering my pack, I trudged towards the inn to ask after Nelacar.

* * *

Lore notes:

* _Sharmat_ : Dumner, 'devil'. Initially, chosen because I thought Mirabelle was a Dunmer (she looks like one to me, but the Wiki said she is a Breton). I figured mages would enjoy showing off their knowledge by insulting people in other languages. Also, chosen because of its strong resemblance to an off-color word in an earth language (anyone who is curious can Google around).

* Taproot: One of the ingredients in a Weakness to Magicka potion

* Phinis Gestor is the one who gives the "Lost Apprentices" quest in the game, and it was only a small skip and a jump to imply that he might have had something to do with their disappearances, although there is nothing in the game that gives that impression.

* Ilianata: Namesake of Ilianata's Deep, where Valen took Azura's Star in "The Black Star" quest


	8. Nelacar

Dear Master,

Have you ever been to Winterhold?

Your servant,

Alzena

* * *

"Why if it isn't…Alzena," Draugr announced, as I fanned my sleeves over the inn's fire. The ink splotch from that day in the library stood out against the damp cloth. He gave me a mock stern look. "Shouldn't you be in lessons right now?

"They let me out early," I said.

"Just as well you came down here. Need to put more meat on you apprentices' bones, they do. Don't tell me what you want – I already know. Coming right up."

I sank into a chair. _Exhausted_ did not even begin to describe how I felt. I thought that maybe if I closed my eyes, I would wake up and find myself in my bed-roll at the College – or, even better, at the Academy – and find out that all this had all been a dream.

A man draped in enormous plate armor jangled over, distracting me from my reverie. I wondered how he could even walk with all that metal hanging off him.

"Nice staff you got there." His voice came out from behind a steel helmet, and a glinting battle-axe was strapped across his back. "Who'd you get it off of?"

His voice sent a cold shiver down me, as if a demon had scraped its claws against the bare stone floor. I wanted to get up and move, but I was afraid of being rude.

His friend – similarly attired – came over and smacked him on the shoulder, resulting in a resounding thump. "Thorig's beard," the man muttered. As the two of them broke into some heated discussion, I gratefully escaped to a table in the corner, and set Sheogorath's staff out of sight.

Soon, Daugr returned with a clay mug of steaming cider. "All out of sweetrolls," he apologized. "Boiled cream treat, instead?"

"No, thanks," I said, as I dug through my meagre supply of coins. I had no idea how I was going to refill my purse. Maybe someone would need a copyist in Windhelm.

The warm mug soothed my hands, which were raw and red from the cold. I breathed in the steam as it drifted up to my face – but all I could smell was taproot.

I put the mug down.

Suddenly, I remembered why I was there in the first place. Waking over to the counter, I asked, "Daugr, do you know a mage named Nelacar?"

"That I do," he said, wiping the counter down.

"Do you know where I can find him?"

"What do you want with him?"

"I…I…I just wanted to ask him a question." Tears threatened to slide from my eyes yet again that day.

Grumbling, Daugr dropped the towel and rapped on a door. "Nelacar," he shouted, "there's a young lady here to see you."

"I'm too old for young ladies," a muffled voice came out. The innkeep knocked again, and again. Suddenly, the door opened.

Daugr's hands went to his face. He stood there, shaking his head. "This," he muttered, " _this_ is why people have a problem with your College, Nelacar."

"It was a minor miscalculation." Now that I could hear it in full, the voice was resonant, like a fine flute crafted of reed. "I've already corrected it for future experiments."

Nelecar placed his hand on the inkeeper's shoulder, and then strode into the common room. His gaze rested upon the armored men – there were actually a few of them, now sitting around a table, helmets off – and then he came towards me.

A shyness overcame me, as if I were gazing up at a prince from a far-off land. I had never seen anyone so exquisite. He was utterly beautiful – if such a word could be used for a man. It was as if a divine artisan had chiselled out his high cheekbones, his delicate brow – and had set gems in as eyes. An intricately embroidered leather wrap rested on his shoulders, and I drew in a breath as I recognized on it the runes of ancient Aldmeris.

He did, however, smell strongly of nimroot.

Sitting up straight, I frantically tried to smooth my robes. They were still damp, and speckled with sand.

"Things must be very bad indeed if the archmage could not come himself." His voice was warm and rich.

"I'm not from the College," I blurted out – and cursed myself for my impertinence.

"The Jarl?" he mused. "We agreed there would be no more questions."

I wanted more than anything else to go back to the College, bathe, borrow the clothes-iron, and try this conversation again.

He must have sensed my discomfort, because he took a seat across from me and rested his palms on the table, absently caressing it as if it were a living thing.

"So, if I may be so blunt," he continued, "why have you summoned me from my alembic?"

"I'm looking for the shrine of Azura," I blurted out artlessly.

His muscles tensed. I might not have noticed before, but my time controlling demons and beasts had given me a much more subtle sense of how creatures moved. I marvelled at how my sight had sharpened.

"I am neither a guide," he said slowly, "nor a map. And I don't like doing business with Azura's faithful."

Steel boots clanked by.

"No," I insisted, "by the Eight – Aedra – gods, no, you have it all wrong." My tutor's voice echoed in my head. _Do not be fooled. All the daedra want is your soul. Once they get it, they will never give it back. They will take you to Oblivion with them – forever._

Nelacar nodded solemnly. "We respect the Ancestors," he agreed, perhaps a little too loudly. Had his voice not been so elegant, I would have thought it held a hint of insincerity. "So, pray tell then, if you are not a pilgrim, and you are not from the College, who sent you to me? I hope this is not sort of twisted joke."

"G-…G-…one of the mages at the College." I couldn't bring myself to say his name

"I thought you said you weren't with the College."

"I…," I stammered, "I mean I'm not a student. I was just working there."

"Odd," said Nelacar. I wanted to sink into the floor. "They've always been so clannish."

"They sure are," I agreed.

His lips twitched – almost, into a smile – and my hopes of finding the shrine were reborn.

I didn't want to ask, but, somehow, I couldn't stop myself. "You used to work at the College?"

"Gods, years ago."

"Did you know someone named Ilianata?"

"Ilianata…Ilianata," he repeated. "I apologize, the lives of the lesser races are so short. Our memories of you easily fade." Suddenly, his face changed. "Oh, yes. Phinis Gestor's…apprentice. Tragic, it was. Moreso for him."

He regarded me thoughtfully. "If I recall correctly, she looked a fair bit like you. Same green eyes, brown hair. Underfed."

The taste of taproot filled my mouth.

"Daugr," Nelacar called out. The innkeeper hastened over. "The usual, please."

"Coming right up," said Daugr. Moments later, he set onto the table a thin glass of deeply scented wine, and a delicate plate of veined cheese.

Nelacar held the cheese out to me. "No, thank you," I said.

Slowly, he sipped his wine. "If I may be so bold," he said, "you have opened a distasteful locked box. I hope you have sound reason."

I looked down at my hands. I felt ashamed.

Suddenly, something occurred to me. I didn't know why I hadn't thought of it before.

"Sir," I said, my heart racing, "back when you were at the College…was there anyone from Cyrodiil?"

He picked up a piece of cheese. "This one is quite rare," he said. "Aged, in the caves off the coast. Are you sure you don't wish to try it?"

I shook my head.

"The loss is yours." He bit into it, and then set the rest down onto the plate.

"What were we talking about?" he asked again.

"Did you know anyone – "

"Yes, yes…Cyrodiil…yes. We don't get many visitors from Cyrodiil – as you can imagine."

I could. By the Eight, I definitely could. I stayed quite, hoping he would say more.

He took another sip of wine. "A bright lad, a promising mage. Perhaps about your age – if I may be so bold. The ages of the lesser races are always difficult to gauge. The archmage offered him a job, but his mind was elsewhere. He was fascinated by the daedra, would talk of nothing else. He, and Phinis, and I – we used to hike up to " – he looked askance at the armored men – "the Lady. Bitter cold, it was. Exhilarating. And, deeply unwise."

His hand rested on another piece of cheese. "I think that tyrant in the library might still have some of his notes."

My Master's book weighed on my mind.

"I really need to find Azura," I pleaded. I sounded like a child. I didn't care.

Nelacar sighed. "Persistent, aren't you?" He lowered his voice. "Follow the road towards Windhelm, and you won't miss it – I guarantee that much."

The name engraved itself in my mind. _Windhelm. Windhelm_.

"Although," he continued, "you might wish you did. The daedra are evil. We're nothing to them. Pawns to move around, praise, and punish as they see fit." He looked down at his half-empty glass. "It's all coming back to haunt me."

Abruptly, he rose. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I left some spriggan sap distilling, and I'd hate for it to dry out."

He left. I didn't want to go out into the cold, but I figured I should leave too. Winterhold was a small town, and it was only a matter of time before someone told the innkeep that I'd been expelled from the College.

I wanted to say farewell to Daugr, but he was busy with the armored men, unloading giant platters of meats and pastries.

Anyway, it didn't really matter – it wasn't as if I would ever see him again.

And so, pulling the fur cloak tightly around me, I headed onto the road towards Windhelm.

* * *

 **Author notes:**

I actually watched a YouTube video on Altmer (for those who don't know, Nelacar is an Altmer or a High Elf) before writing this. Without being stereotypical (since, surely, not all Altmer are the same), I tried to inject a little more Altmer into Nelacar. I changed around some of the dialogue, because I doubted Nelacar would think that someone as young and bedraggled as Alzena was really sent by the College or the Jarl to interrogate him. In-game, I imagined him as jaded and bitter, but when I looked closer at his picture, I thought he looked...exquisite. That completely changed my mental image of him.

Thanks for the reviews!

 **Gaiden1974** \- A legitimate question! Truthfully, when I played through the College of Winterhold, I didn't pay any attention to Mirabelle's race, but I when looked her up on the game Wiki, I thought her picture looked grey (and even with a glint of red in her eyes).

 **Jackrabbit55 -** Glad to hear it - that means that I'm doing my job here right! As for the updating...well, that's what the lunch hour at work is for. ;) (Colleagues are, hopefully, not reading this...)


	9. Azura

Dear Master,

I have, at last, made it to the shrine of Azura. I will send you my notes.

Your servant,

Alzena

* * *

It was exactly like my Master had described in his book – the foreboding altar, the jagged rocks, the bitter cold, the towering statue of Azura - the sun in one hand, the moon in another.

And yet, there were things that even my Master could not convey. How the warmth rushed back into my legs after the arduous climb. How the cliffs dropped off over an ocean of snow. The deep alto of the priestess who chanted, arms outstretched. The dizzying, terrifying sense of being on top of the world.

"Greetings, traveller." The priestess's skin was the same ashen grey as the altar, and her cloak had been patched many times.

"Greetings." The wind blew into my face.

She gestured towards an open tent against the rock-face. A campfire flickered nearby, and the scent of fresh stew drifted towards me. "Please, rest yourself after your travels. You have come far."

I sank onto the warm, dry furs. Moments later, she came back and handed me a wooden bowl.

I sniffed it. It smelled of cabbage and carrots – standard enough fare here – but, as far as I was concerned, after the long climb, it could have been cooked by the Gourmet. I lifted the spoon and then hesitated, remembering taproot.

"I assure you, pilgrim," she said, "my people are not the monsters we are made out to be."

Feeling my cheeks redden, I tasted a bit, and then wolfed down the rest. She brought me another bowl, and then settled herself across me on the furs. We sat in the silence of the mountains as the fading light danced off of Azura's likeness, sending a deep shadow across the mountains. Candlelight flickered from the altar. The evening star sparkled into life, followed by the stars of the Warrior and the Steed.

"The twilight and the dawn are when we commune with the Lady," the priestess said.

"Can you tell me about her?" I asked.

"It was not curiosity but fate that brought you here." She frowned, creases lining her leathery face. "Do you really not know the Lady?"

"I…I wish to know if what I have heard is true."

She looked at me strangely. "Azura sees into the twilight of the future, and guides her followers through it. We – my people – we fled Morrowind after the volcano erupted. Those of us who were faithful to Azura were given a vision that led us away before the worst came. This shrine is our thanks to her. That none will forget she is the watcher of all."

I looked at the priestess with newfound respect. This was faith, clear and simple.

It was a world away from the Academy priests, with their lofty titles and their richly dyed robes. The ones I used to see every week when the Master made me attend the Imperial temple. He said that people needed to see me there. He himself did not go.

"How long have you been here?" I asked.

Her eyes brightened, but her voice still had a hint of sadness. "Many years. Many years. I have lost count."

"It must be difficult," I said, "being so alone."

She fingered an amulet. It was fashioned into a star. "There were others at first, but Azura's visions tested everyone's faith. One by one, they left. Afraid to know their own future. But I refuse to abandon the shrine. The visions are a gift. I won't leave her guidance."

The firelight crackled in the darkness, and the priestess took in a deep breath. "The Lady has…foreseen your coming. I had a vision of you walking up these steps."

Was this what they told everyone? "How?"

"You come to pay homage to the Lady, and you doubt her?"

"No." Innumerable stars now glittered above, glinting off of the sun and moon in Azura's hands. "I just…I don't know what to think anymore."

The priestess withdrew into herself, her eyes glazed. "Pilgrim," she finally said, "the Lady wishes to speak to you herself. Please. Place your hands on the altar."

 _What?_

 _The daedra will deceive you_ , my tutors' voices warned me. _All they want is your soul. Once they get it, they will never give it back. You will spend eternity with them in Oblivion._

Might I not just take note of the shrine, and be safely on my way?

But my Master had already done that. Clearly, he wanted me to go a step further.

"I will." I tried to hide the fear in my voice.

The priestess turned away. I couldn't guess her thoughts.

The altar was blanketed with snow, and wax dripped from the candelabras. I knelt, examining familiar patters and runes. A fearsome beast roared from each corner – just as the Master had drawn. It was strange, against the glorious shadow of the Lady.

Bracing myself, I thrust my hands onto the altar.

A presence shimmered into being around me. This was no _Sheogorath_ , gallivanting around. It was not human at all – neither human nor demon. It was…like a myriad of shining stars, a thousand sunrises and sunsets, dancing and sparkling in the very joy of being.

It embraced me, clasped my heart in its hands. The pain, the hunger, the confusion – all were gone. It was going to care for me, watch over me. For the first time, I was truly at home.

And then –

Hands gently pulled me away.

I struggled. "Put me back," I begged.

The priestess held me back. She was stronger than her small stature suggested. And, just like that, it was gone. I was back in this gods-forsaken world, full of betrayal and ice, loneliness and blood. All I wanted was to throw myself back into the light.

"The Lady only gives us glimpses here," the priestess said. "I hope to join with her in eternity."

I now understood what kept her here.

Her amulet sparkled in the firelight. It was a clear star, of many facets. "Pilgrim," she said, "the Lady has shown me a vision. She has chosen you to be…her champion."

My jaw dropped.

"I know it is unexpected," she said, "especially for…an outlander. But do not fight it. Azura's prophecies always come to pass. To deny them is to go headlong into darkness."

Every speck of my being shouted out _yes_. I had never been more certain of anything in my life.

But when I spoke, it was with my Master's voice. "I cannot," I said. "I already serve a Master."

My tutors would have been proud.

The priestess frowned. "Very well. I cannot force you to accept your destiny." She unfurled the flap of the tent. "Let us sleep. Everything will be revealed in time."

Nestled in the furs, I was asleep before I knew it, although the taste of taproot lingered in my dreams. And then a light embraced me, and replaced it with the scent of lavender and pine.

I awoke to soft chanting in the breaking dawn. " _Gher iam gah'dun siin Azura nesi'ag eal gah'amer Biridad as reymo winol shoksuna. Luhn'silvar, belid flur…._ "

I had never heard this language spoken outside of my lessons.

The priestess was facing the rising sun. "Twilight and dawn are when we commune with the Lady," she said.

She rose, and tended the fire. "I must confess, my heart is troubled."

"Why?"

Her hand went to the amulet again. "Azura gave me a vision. Her last, she said. I have never been without Azura's foresight since escaping Morrowind. I don't know what to do."

"You have your faith?" I asked.

"Yes, but there are things I do not understand." Her face was drawn. "I still have my duties, but for the first time I feel... alone. It is best that you go."

"Of course," I said. She had already done so much for me. "Thank you."

"The Lady be with you." She bent towards the altar to re-light the candles.

Slowly, I walked down the steps, the light of dawn filling my mind.

Suddenly, jangling metal interrupted my reverie. I froze, and then darted behind some rocks.

A voice shattered the still mountain air. "Make way for the Vigilants of Stendarr!"

What kind of crude people were these?

"B'vek," the priestess hissed. I heard the beginnings of an incantation.

"Stendarr's mercy be upon you, for we have none to spare."

"Leave, outlanders, before I kill you for defiling Azura's shrine." The priestess's voice was stern and harsh.

"The suffering the daedra caused will not go unpunished. We hunt the daedra, and any other abominations."

There was the sound of flesh upon flesh. "Unhand me, blasphemer, or you will feel Azura's wrath."

"We know you're holding a daedric artifact. Hand it over."

"I do not know of which 'artifact' you speak. And if I did, I would not give it to you."

"Do not think us fools. We saw the apprentice come up here with the staff."

"That N'wah? She blasphemes against the Lady. She has given the Lady nothing, not even her word."

"Then prepare yourself to receive Stendarr's mercy."

I head the clang of steel, the clap of lightning and spells. The priestess was far more powerful than she let on – or maybe it was her goddess fighting threw her.

This was my fault. They must have followed me up here. How could I have been so careless?

Why was I so weak? Wasn't there anything I could do?

After what seemed like an eternity, her voice reached my ears. It was faint. "The Twilight has foreseen this."

Metal struck earth.

And then, I only heard the voices of men.

"None escape the Vigil."

"Pass me a bandage."

"Ouch."

"Dunmer whore."

"Dammit."

"She's still warm."

"Watch it, wouldya?"

"We could…heh… _consecrate_ the altar."

"Too many seasons in the wild for you, lad."

"Azura's bitch'll give you some kind of disease."

"Come on, let's get out of here before we freeze to death."

A rage boiled up in me, one I had never known before.

All of a sudden, I saw what I could do. No longer afraid, I crouched by the rock like a wolf lying in wait.

They tramped down the stairs, kicking pebbles and snow as they went. My anger simmered at my fingertips. And then, when they were but ants, I let loose the power I had been holding back, softly urging the atronach to bind to my will.

It dipped and dived, and I shared in its delight, my mind linked to its. It sparked impatiently, and I fought to block its impatience from my mind.

Then, I let it go, and it swept through the air with glee, did what it was made for - and rejoiced as it lobbed down ball after ball of flame.

"Ysmir's beard!" echoed along the rocks. "I told you we should have gotten that milk-drinker!"

My atronach was laughing inside as it teased them, just out of reach of their battle-axes and swords.

Then, when all was silent, I climbed down.

There lay the Vigilants of Stendarr, in a fitting mockery of their god.

The flames had singed off their beards, disfigured their hands, charred their bones. Swathes of flesh had melted against their metal plate.

I had never known I possessed such power.

I hoped Azura would be pleased.

The snow began to fall again, sending steam up from what was left of their bodies.

I climbed back up the mountain. I wasn't sure why, only that it was something I felt like I had to do.

The priestess's body was barely recognizable, it was so covered with blood and wounds. Her robes were shredded.

I didn't know what to do. I tried to drag her body closer to the altar so at least it wouldn't be out in the open, but I couldn't move her. Eventually, I got down on my knees and nudged the body, until it came to rest against the altar. Then, I lifted up a fur from the tent to cover her body with.

The star-shaped necklace tumbled out. She must have hid it here, when the Vigilants had come. She must have known.

Should I lay it to rest with her?

It seemed meaningful. I didn't think she would want me to leave it here to be disrespected. Finally, I slipped it on, under my robes. The star was warm, against my bare skin.

Experimentally, I touched the altar again. This time, it was quiet, but a strange energy still buzzed through it, and into the star - let me know that I had not just imagined the night before.

There was nothing left to do here. I walked on, down the stairs and onto the cobbled road towards Windhelm.

There were so many lies told about the daedra, I knew that now. These 'Vigilants' were ignorant brutes, that was their excuse. But my Master had known – and he still hadn't told me.

I imagined what I would do if I chanced upon another Vigilant.

But I never reached Windhelm, for a young man came running up to me.

"I've been looking for you," he said, rummaging through a sack at his waist. My hands tingled, another atronach at the ready. "Got something I'm supposed to deliver. For your hands only. Let's see here...got this note."

He handed it to me. Letting the atronach slip away, I passed him a coin, and he ran on.

Could it be from the Master?

But the wax seal was unfamiliar. I broke it. The letter had a black handprint, and only two words.

"We know," was all it said.

* * *

 **Author notes:** Yes…you know what this means! This is more of an Oblivion-style method of joining the Brotherhood – surely, not every candidate can dispatch Grelod (after all, there is only one of Grelod).

The Dunmeri words are taken from 'Hortator' by Smitehammer (available on YouTube).

Dreamin'Dreams - Thanks for taking the time to review!


	10. Astrid

Chapter 10 (Astrid)

Dear Alzena,

I have received your letter.

Alzena, it is time for you to come home. One must not meddle in the affairs of the daedra for too long. You can resume your mission after the next snowmelt.

Signed,

Master Yoneleth

* * *

Aedra, _again_? I had been shivering under an outcropping, imagining warm bread and spirced cider – or maybe a sweetroll. My feet ached, and, to distract myself, I had been reciting _Aedra and Daedra_.

My wolf had been patrolling, snuffing for prey. I called it to me and petted it, feeling its rough, tangled fur in my hands. Its tongue lolled. It was content, and its contentment washed over me as well. The pain subsided.

Suddenly, a new pain shot through me. An arrow had hit the wolf. He growled, and faded back into Oblivion. Another arrow hit me, but it didn't hurt. Instead, I felt…sleepy. I curled up on the icy ground, and closed my eyes. Someone picked me up, carried me.

Now, I was in a wooden shack,. Mold had eaten through the walls, and water was dripping through the roof. The door looked flimsy enough, but it was barred, and a shiny, new-looking lock dangled from it. No windows.

"Sleep well?" A lean woman perched high above me, her legs dangling down. She eyed me the same way my wolf had eyed a rabbit. A scimitar hung from her side. Was she a guardswoman? She didn't look like the guards in Solitude.

"Who – what – "

"Does it matter? You're warm, dry, and very much alive. Unlike those men you left in the wilds."

Was I in jail?

Her eyes flicked along my scrawny body. My robes were covered in mud.

"Old Cicero spun me some tale about you taking down those religious 'cleansers' up near Winterhold. Grown men, well-trained, and well-armed." She frowned. "Was that really _you_?"

I stared up in shock.

"Don't misunderstand." She shook out her blonde hair. "I'm not criticizing. It was a good kill. They had it coming."

Her muscles flexed under her tight, dark leathers. "I'll cut right to it. There's a contract out on one of them, and that person can't leave this room alive. But…which one? Go on, see if you can figure it out."

She gestured behind me. In the torchlight, I made out three figures, bound and with cloth bags over their heads. My palms began to sweat.

Was this what they made people do in jail?

An unadorned sword was lying in the dirt. "You want me to...?"

"By Sithis." She drummed her fingers against the crate. "Do I have to spell it out for you?" Her eyebrows narrowed. "There are four of you down there. No one is leaving until one of you dies." She rested her hand on the scimitar. "Make your choice. Make your kill. I don't intend to be here all night."

Could this have something to do with the civil war? Had I accidentally stumbled onto rebel territory? My face betrayed me as an Imperial.

Dazed, I walked over to the first prisoner – a Vigilant. No, not a Vigilant, just a man, in dull, patchy armor, with an empty scabbard at his hips. "Sir?" My voice trembled. "Is there any reason why someone would want you…?"

"I…I…Ysmir's beard, be nice to a poor man, would you?"

He was shaking. I wasn't even armed.

"By Talos" – he was sobbing under the bag – "by the Eight – whoever you worship – please, whatever it is, I'm sorry."

I picked up the sword. My arm sagged. Hefting it up with both hands, I came closer to him, and explored his armor with the point. I imagined what it would be like to link my mind to his, what feelings he would send back to me.

"Is this about that raid last week? I told Holgrim there was no honor in killing sleeping men, but he wouldn't listen! It wasn't my fault, I swear." His voice grew higher and higher. "Just please, don't kill me."

A foul scent filled the room. He had lost control of his bowels.

I walked to the second prisoner. She was wearing an old, lacy dress that might once have been red. "Stealing a woman from her home. For shame! Six children and no husband…."

The guardswoman sniggered.

"You a young lady?"

"I…I suppose so."

"Any little ones?"

"No."

"A beau?"

"No."

"Poor thing, Mara will bless you soon. Just imagine your own mama tied up like this – "

"I have no family."

She _tsk_ ed. "What a pity. No wonder you got all mixed up with these folk. Without a good family, it's so easy for the young ones to go _deviant_."

The last prisoner wasn't from around here – wasn't even human. His people had trade caravans outside the cities, sold trinkets and potions. A group of them had been camped outside Solitude, before someone accused them of stealing – or so the rumor went – and they disappeared, just like that, before the sun was down. Always on the move.

"Sir?" I noticed how thin his arms were, under the ropes. "Any reason…?"

"The human insults Khajit's honour." His accent was lilting, sad. "This is not the first time Khajit has been bagged and dragged. If one of Khajit's enemies would not pay to have Khajit killed, Khajit would take it as a personal insult."

His muscles betrayed no tension – perhaps, a practiced poise. "Khajit is obtainer of goods, taker of lives, and defiler of daughters." He purred. "Hmm…shall we arrange for a defiling?"

He was so much like Jee-ra. Except that this Khajit didn't have the same sense of wrongness. He looked…lost, like a summoning that had lost its master. I wished I could free him.

How did you go about doing this? I had never even slaughtered a chicken. I pictured myself sawing the sword back and forth across her bodice, as if I were slicing a carrot, her children crying at home. Let them cry. At least they had known her.

Or, what about the man? He, at least, expected to die. I pretended he was a Vigilant, lying charred with his friends in the snow. Could you cut through metal? Or did I just swing blindly at the hood and wait for him to bleed to death? That sounded…gory. And messy. The wrists, maybe? But would the guardswoman think I was trying to cut him loose?

The sword thudded to the ground.

"I'm going to gut that Cicero like a horker," swore the guardswoman.

Turning away, I began chanting. An atronach flew towards me. It buzzed with flame, sparks dancing in the air, eager let loose its burden. It liked it here. It liked being warm, being inside. It liked the wood. It thought of flames. I sent it flipping around, and it smiled back at me.

The guardswoman sat upright. Her hand was on her scimtar.

"Azura," I whispered, the gem dragging down beneath my robes, "you who watches over all. Guide the hand of your creature to the guilty."

The scimtar was out now.

"Strike." I cut the link. The atronach's senses vanished from my mind.

Suddenly, Gestor's voice came to me, unbidden. _Never summon a creature you can't control._

 _The planks were red with Jee-ra's blood. The Vigilants' flesh was fused to their armor. The Master was chiding me. "Alzena, you failed."_ _  
_

I threw myself onto the dirt.

Flames rushed past me. There was an agonizing scream. I didn't look back to see whose it was.

With a force of will, I seized the atronach. It sputtered, angrily, its anger rebounding back onto me. I was shaking, and it began to shake too, sending more sparks into the air. _Control yourself_. Azura's light shone in my mind. The atronach calmed, and I forced it back to Oblivion.

"Well done." The scimtar was back by her side. "Unusual…but well done. A clean kill." She coughed, smoke and ash filling the room. "More or less, anyway."

She jumped down and held out her hand. "Name's Astrid."

"Alzena." I yawned, and then clapped my hand to my mouth, horrified. "But you probably already knew that."

"Didn't." She rustled in her leather pouch and produced a key. "Alzena, I would officially like to extend to you an invitation to join our family."

She walked out into the night and onto the road. I hastened to match her pace. I tried not to think about what would happen to the others.

"So," I ventured, "what is this…family?"

"Hmm?" She had been digging through her pouch again and now had a bottle – jasmine oil, by the scent. "Oh, yes. The Brotherhood – the Dark Brotherhood. We're an ancient order – a guild, so to speak."

So, not rebels – and not jail. "Everyone knew what the Brotherhood was in Cyrodiil…but I couldn't imagine why they would be interested in someone like me.

"What is your – our – job?" I was dreading the answer.

"We…." Astrid dabbed perfume onto her wrists. "We make Skyrim a better place. Do the jobs no one else wants to. Take care of the…undesirables. Adulterers, thieves, murderers. The greedy. Slave-masters. Sometimes you need to cut off the limb to save the body, make it healthy again."

 _None escape the Vigil._

"And they thank us for it. Often, quite handsomely." I noted the polished sheen of her leathers, a far cry from the prisoner's dull mail. "Rich or poor, Nord or Dunmer, adult or child – we don't discriminate. The Mother guides our hand."

"The Mother?"

"The Night Mother. Or, maybe you know of her superior – Sithis?"

I shuddered. "Yes." We had read about her – or him, I couldn't remember – at the Academy. Some kind of demigod. Vengeful. Horrific. Not in the books of the daedra, so that was where my interest had ended.

Like worshipping daedra, worshiping Sithis was proscribed – punishable by death. However, while some people outside the cities did actually perform daedric rites, I hadn't heard of anyone ever worshipping Sithis. The thought was…repulsive.

"I had you pegged as one of those learned types. Could come in handy." The moonlight shone on the road. "Been a while since we've had any of those…ah, you know, with us."

"The what?"

"That twilight cult. No offense."

I shivered. I had come so close to giving up my soul to Azura. What frightened me more, is that an irrational, foolhardy, impulsive part of me still wished I had. She still shone in my dreams.

"Like I said. We don't judge. As long as you honor the Mother, your temple is your business." She whispered in my ear, her breath warm. "I hear they're good killers. Is that where you learned to do that thing with your little pet?"

"No!" The gem dangled incriminatingly. "Gods, no. I'm not…one of _them_."

She angled her head. "Were you tracking those men just for sport?"

"No…." How was I supposed to explain this? "I'm…a researcher." I glanced around, as if the Master was about to swoop down on me.

"Dedicated." Astrid squeezed my shoulder. "Curious. Takes initiative. And even book-learned. Well, well. Maybe jolly old Cicero – or his Mother – didn't make a mistake after all."

She ran her hand down my arm, feeling my muscles, the bit of fat under my arm. "With all respect to Sithis, I take a more practical approach. You're young, small, lithe, and…plain. Keep those old robes on, and dirt on your face, and no one will take a second glance. Until it's too late."

Mercifully, lanterns greeted us around the bend.

We stopped at a carriage. Astrid negotiated with the driver – her hand casually resting on the scimitar – and she motioned for me to climb in. Thank the Aedra that she didn't ask me to pay. I didn't have enough gold to go…anywhere.

We rode in silence. Astrid ran her hands through her hair, braiding bits on the side. Her mind seemed elsewhere. This was my chance. I could jump out of the carriage and run into the forest.

But… where then? Windhelm? Another sunken ship? Traipse around in my Master's footsteps, sending him notes on places he'd already been?

Or, back to Cyrodiil? Assuming I could even scrape together enough coin. I didn't know what would happen if I went back, but I knew that nothing would ever be the same. The damning evidence of that weighed heavily in my pack.

No, I had a new quest now. My quest was not to study the daedra to learn the truth about the daedra. My quest was to study the daedra…to learn the truth about my Master.

Could this 'family' help me?

 _Family_. It was an abstract idea, like declining ancient Aldmeris, but it made me feel warm inside. At the Academy, our tutors had been our fathers, the scullery-maids our mothers. And when most of my classmates had moved on to the army, I had been apprenticed to my Master, and then it was just me and him, alone in the arcane.

I never knew why they had held me back. Maybe because I was brighter than most, or maybe because I was weaker than most.

Or maybe because I had nowhere else to go.

As the moon passed overhead, I nodded off to sleep, awakening at jolts to find myself leaning against Astrid, her dark leathers rising and falling with her breath.

We stopped. Astrid hopped out – she certainly was agile – and I chased after her, pine needles clinging to my robes. I didn't want to lose her. I had no idea where we were. Finally, we reached a stone enclave, hidden behind the trees.

"Thank Sithis." Astrid tugged a metal chain next to a giant stone door. Even in the dim light, I could see a grotesque carving of a shrunken corpse.

"What is the music of life?" called out a deep voice.

"Silence, my brother." The door creaked open.

"Welcome home." Astrid pulled some rouge out of her pouch. "Be sure to introduce yourself to your new family."

And then she dashed off, leaving me alone by the imposing door.


	11. The Sanctuary

Chapter 11: The Sanctuary

Dear Master,

I received your letter. Unfortunately, I no longer have enough coin to return to Cyrodiil. However, by the grace of the gods, I have found work. Should I continue with my mission?

Your servant,

Alzena

* * *

I hesitated under the archway to the common room. I wanted to turn tail and flee. But a fire was flickering in the hearth, and the smell of smoking meat wafted out invitingly.

"I'm just a little girl," a diminutive woman simpered, fluttering her eyes up at a robust-looking man. "The Dark Brotherhood killed my mama and papa, and then they took me captive!"

The man snorted. "Babette-"

Suddenly, he whirled around.

I flinched. I was certain I hadn't made any noise.

He strode towards me. His steps were sure, graceful. I fingered the chain around my neck nervously.

"Sithis be damned," he swore. I had to crane my neck up to look at him. Muscles bulged under his tunic. "Where's Astrid?"

"Ahem," coughed Babette. "Busy."

He smirked, and then turned back to me. "Yer the one Cicero was going on about." His warm voice belied his rough, sun-hardened skin. "Astrid had a lot to say about that. Mostly unrepeatable." He grunted. "Anyway, yer here. Have a seat." He patted a bench. "Yer name?"

"Alzena."

"Yer from Alik'r?" His brow creased.

"No." This was always awkward. "The woman who found me as a baby was a Redguard. That's what she called me." A rather uninteresting name at that – _the woman_ – although I supposed he knew that.

A broad smile spread across his face. "Still, a good omen." He turned to the woman. "Babette, are ye going to make our sister starve?"

Babette tapped her foot. "Table's over there Nazir."

"Women here," muttered Nazir. Striding over to the table, he piled up a wooden tray with goat's cheese and meats, and added a couple metal plates.

"I'll have some too," Babette said. Nazir didn't seem to have heard her. He was busy staring at me as if I were a Dwemer puzzle box.

"Cicero says yer some kind of professional." He ran his hands through his lush, dark beard. "Wouldn't let up. _Oh, the Mother wants her, yes she does! She's good, very good. Please please please. The Mother absolutely insists!_ "

Babette rolled her eyes.

This was all wrong. I belonged in a mage-college somewhere, or a library – not here. Sooner or later, they'd find out. "Do you think she made a mistake?"

Nazir harrumphed. "Astrid did say that this Mother business was a cartload o' – "

"No." Babette stepped closer to Nazir. "The Mother doesn't make mistakes. She sees into our hearts."

Nazir grimaced.

"But…." I looked around – at the fur rug, the swords gleaming on a weapon-rack, the armor rusting on a dummy. "Why me?"

Nazir cleared his throat. "Ye've – ahem…?" He patted his scimitar meaningfully.

"I've never even been in a fight."

A sly grin danced on his lips. "I don't doubt that."

"The Mother chooses killers, not fighters," Babette said. She was tiny, like a porcelain doll. "You men are so naïve. Always judging by brute strength."

Nazir pursed his lips. "What's yer favoured style?"

"Summoning."

"What?"

"Nothing too difficult. Wolves, atronachs – "

"No… _oh_." Nazir couldn't have looked more horrified if I had just raised the body of his long-lost great-grandmother. It was almost comical.

"Ahem." Babette put her hands on her hips. "The robes, Nazir."

"Should've guessed." He cringed. "Evil magicks."

" _My_ magic is not evil." Babette nudged him.

" _Yer_ not evil, Babette," he riposted. "Just yer magic is…oh, wait, ye _are_ evil."

She laughed.

The faint scent of distilling juniper berries drifted in, or maybe it was my imagination. "Magic is powerful," I said. "Magic is dangerous. But it's not, in itself, evil. It's all in whether you control it, or it controls you." My mouth suddenly tasted of taproot. I willed it away.

"Coward's tool," declared Nazir. "Not for a real man." He pulled out his scimitar. "All the way from Alik'r." He stroked it lovingly. "No, I favour a close kill. Feel it in your hands. Earthy. Meaty. The blood, the guts. Nothing like it."

I was going to be ill.

"But I don't fancy yer much of a swordswoman."

"Not really."

He studied the weapon rack, and took down a slender bow. Babette raised her eyebrows.

"If yer going to be part of the family, ye'd better get started with this." He held it out to me. His hands were wide and solid, with faded scars. "Ye look like the type who likes to strike from the shadows."

Nazir took it upon himself to train me, and after that, I spent countless afternoons copying his aquiline stance as Babette glared.

I soon met the others. There was Anjborn – Astrid's husband, who sneered at me and called me "tidbit".

They had a resident master of the arcane too – Festus. He had lost his hair and was about Gestor's age.

"Your robes aren't College issue," Festus said approvingly, as I hung back at the door. "I taught there for a time, but couldn't abide by it. Too simple. Too safe. They didn't understand the true glory of destruction magic."

What malfeasance could he be brewing that was _outside_ the College rules? I knew what went on there.

"Could use another pair of hands." He was fumbling with some chopped nightshade and not looking directly at me.

"I'm busy training." The words came tumbling out.

"My research is beyond you anyway." He turned back to his alembic and proceeded to ignore me.

In truth, however, I hadn't forgotten about my summonings. I had a lot more confidence in my ability to summon an atronach than to shoot a bow and arrow. I wasn't even sure I had the stomach to shoot an actual person. But, I was new to the family and wanted to do things Nazir's way. I could summon later.

And, of course, there was Cicero. About him, Nazir grumbled, "I don't like mimes, minstrels, thespians, acrobats, jugglers, troubadours or tumblers. I particularly hate jesters." He also muttered something about Cicero and a fixation with corpses.

Nazir thought Cicero was mad. I thought he was terrifying. He was like the shell of a man weighed down by an utterly malignant, sinister, devious presence, pierced only by his ravings. He set me on edge. Something about him seemed too close to home, although I couldn't place why.

I avoided Cicero too, and busied myself with shooting arrows into mock guardsmen wrought of rope and straw.

Eventually, the arrows started hitting their targets.

"Decent," Nazir admitted. He was crouching, scimitar in hand. He never stood still, was always refining his form – even though he already seemed to have the strength and reflexes of a sabre tooth cat. "Just angle it a little to the left." He slashed at the air. "Don't misunderstand. Yer no _ansei_."

" _Ansei_?"

"Sword-singer. Among my tribesmen." His eyes took on that familiar sparkle, as they did whenever he talked about the Alik'r. "But, ye look like ye now have a fair chance at a fight."

"Thanks." My arms ached.

"Astrid told me as soon as yer ready, send ye on yer first job." He bristled. "She's a little impatient. I had some harsh words with 'er, didn't want to send ye out there before yer ready. She said it was the Mother's choice, and not to interfere."

"I'm ready," I assured him. Just as if I were ready to jump into a portal. As ready as I'd ever be.

Rain dripped onto the stone ceiling. "No one is ever ready," he said. "Except maybe for Astrid. She came out of the womb with a sword. But I've been doing this a long time, and I've the instinct for it. I can tell. Ye haven't done this before. This isn't fighting. This is killing. In cold blood."

He ran his hand through his thick, black hair. "Once ye start down this path…it's difficult to turn back." His fierce gaze locked onto my face. "Recruits get lost. Especially new ones. If ye don't come back, I'll understand."

No one had ever told me to disobey orders before.

He sheathed his scimtar. "Yer mark's in Ivarstead," he continued. "Ye can get a carriage from Falkreath – just head right as soon as ye reach the road. Here's some money for the ride, and expenses. Target's name is Narfi. Ask around for him. Discreetly."

I nodded, and tried to put on a brave face. Just like I had when the Master had sent me away with the caravan.

"Ye don't look like I need to tell ye this," he continued, "but just keep it business. Nothing stupid. Nothing showy. Get in, do the job, get out." He smirked. "Hail Sithis."

"Hail Sithis."

I headed for the door. As soon as I reached the road, Cicero leaped out at me. I screeched.

"Alze-ze-ze-ze-zena," he chirped. "The Mother has a message for you."

His shadow loomed over me. I focused on my breath, just like the Master had taught me. _One, two, three._ _Ayem, bedt, cess_ _._ "I'm on my way to a job."

"Yes, yes. Send poor Narfi to Sithis. An unworthy gift, but your first gift to the Mother." The rain was soaking his purple tights and hat. "Of course, you can never do more for the Mother than dear Cicero."

He suddenly stilled. He leaned in close, too close. "The Mother said you need more training."

"I don't need a…powerful creature from the beyond…to tell me that."

"The Mother said you need to go to Markarth." He pressed a pouch into my hand. I felt coin. "She said if you go to Markarth, you'll find what you're looking for." He cocked his head. "Lose something?"

A chill wind blew by.

"Cicero," I said sternly, as if I were admonishing one of the younger students at the Academy, "you aren't going to tell anyone about this."

"No." He grinned, showing yellowed, broken teeth. "Your secret is safe with me…and the Mother."

Then he scampered away, cackling, "Happy kill!"

* * *

 **Author notes:**

Welcome to the new readers!

 _Ayem, bedt, cess_ \- first three letters of the daedric alphabet.

sodamon - That depends on how the daedra feel about it! Up until now, they have been strangely free with their gifts...

Jackrabbit55 - :) (on both counts)

Lore note: I'm not sure if Babette eats, but I wanted to downplay overt references to her being a vampire and just leave it as a subtext.


	12. The First Job

Dear Alzena,

I have no choice but to tell you to continue on your mission while you are there. But…be wary. Please. For my sake. Peer not too deeply into Oblivion, lest it peer too deeply into you. By now, perhaps you have realized some of the dangers that lie before you. What you do not realize is far greater.

Signed,

Master Joneleth

* * *

The scrawny man was just standing there by the river, all by himself. He was muttering to the trees, or the gods, or no one at all. Sometimes he would cower, cover his head, yell, and start it all over again.

I knew. I'd been watching him for the better part of mid-morning.

His skin was shrivelled, blistered into a permanent red where his clothes – no, rags – had torn. His cheeks were hollow.

Was this really the right person? Astrid had spoken of removing leeches from Tamriel. What could this pathetic man have done?

"Narfi," I finally called out.

He darted over. "Reyda?"

"No."

"Someone's come to see old Narfi!" He clapped his hands and jumped up and down. "No one comes to see old Narfi since his sister went away."

I cursed myself. I was here to shoot him, not have tea.

"Old Narfi's a little hungry." He patted his sunken belly. "Spare some coin for a friend?"

This was ridiculous. I handed him a coin.

He kissed it and clasped it to his heart. "Now, what can Narfi do for a nice girl like you?"

Maybe Nazir was right. I just wasn't cut out for this. Anyone who could kill a man like this was…well, _evil_ didn't even begin to describe it. They would make necromancers look like devotees of Mara.

"Just saying hello," I told him.

"Hullo!"

Could I really just disappear, as Nazir had hinted? But, how did you slip out from under the eyes of a powerful being? Especially since – and gods only knew why – the Mother seemed to have a vested interest in me.

 _You will find what you are looking for._ Could she know?

The Master had not mentioned Markarth in his book, I was sure – I had practically memorized it.

I boarded the carriage and rode to Markarth in silence, my bow and arrows strapped pointedly to my pack. No one gave me a second glance.

When we finally arrived, Markarth hit me like a load of bricks.

The air was smoky and acrid, and stunk of human waste. I doubled over, coughing. Didn't they have sewers? Crumbling, ornate ruins spawned a maze of passages, crawling with people shouting in unfamiliar tongues. An eerie song drifted through the air. Ahead, two grown men slung their fists at each other.

"Safest city in the reach," a guard muttered.

Thieves and murderers lurked in every shadow. Did I look like a stranger, an easy mark?

A sign loomed ahead. "The Silver-Blood Inn".

Quickly, I got off the street.

Inside the inn, a thin woman was sweeping, revealing a grimy oaken floor. "Greetings, traveller." She sauntered over.

"Greetings."

"We don't get many visitors these days." Her bodice was incredibly low-cut. "With the Falmer, the Forsworn, the rebellion, the dead not staying dead – it's been hard times for Markarth."

I felt embarrassed just looking at her.

"Apologies. Bad luck to talk about the dead in Markarth. What brings you to our fine establishment?"

Something skittered past. "Um…work."

"Looking for work?"

Unless the gods decided to claim old Narfi soon... yes, I would be looking for work. I nodded.

"Hmmm." She played with the strap of her dress. "A witchhunter from the Priesthood of Stendarr is in town. Asking a lot of questions about that old abandoned house."

"Where?"

"Just down the lane. _Evil rites_ , he said. _A blight on Tamriel._ "

"Thanks." I rushed out, coughing again. The sun was shining, and the light glinted off the stone, hurting my eyes.

Next to a pile of refuse was a young man who looked…like me. Brown hair, pale skin, slim build. He reminded me of the Emperor. He could easily have been part of the royal family. Imperial, through and through.

A horn-shaped amulet swung from his neck. I had seen it before – on the other Vigilants.

He bounded over. "Well met!"

"Well met."

"Gods, it's such a relief to see a familiar face." His smile seemed so genuine. "Where you from?"

"Capital."

"Me too!"

Had I seen him there? I couldn't remember him. No surprise. The capital was huge, and I'd spent most of my time at the Academy.

"I'm here with the order of Stendarr." He showed me his amulet proudly. "You could say I'm a daedra hunter."

"Me too."

"You're joking! Are you with one of the" – his eyes sparkled eagerly – "the priesthoods?"

"No, the Academy."

"Perfect." Nothing could dampen his smile.

I found myself smiling back. It was refreshing to hear a familiar accent. I'd been here so long, I'd stopped noticing how people talked differently.

"I have a confession." He hung his head. "I was afraid to go in alone."

"You?" A laugh escaped my mouth. "A Vigilant of Stendarr?"

He actually blushed. "I know, it's silly. We 'cleanse Tamriel of these abominations' and all that."

Fortunately, he hadn't seen Azura's star.

"It's just…there's something evil in that house. Real evil. Didn't want to head in without someone else." He drew himself up. "But I see you've skill with the bow."

"Sort of."

He braved the door first. The house was dark. Something creaked. Fumbling, he lit a torch, and then gasped. "Fresh food. No wood rot. Someone's been here."

Someone – or something – still was. I felt it. I'd felt it ever since I had come to Markarth, I realized. It was reaching out to me, singing a sweet melody. Dark. Foreboding. Enticing. I shivered.

He tiptoed over to a table, brushed aside some crumbs, and gasped. "Evil," he swore, clutching his amulet. "Evil."

"Evil?"

"Evil rites." He shied away from it.

I took a closer look. The sheaf of parchment was etched in daedric. _The weak will be punished by the strong. Bring strife and discord with you wherever you may travel. Now go._

The voice beckoned me.

"I'll go first." His hands were clenched so hard, his knuckles were white. "Cover me."

We crept downstairs.

He halted. "Wait! Can you hear that?"

The voice was not calling to him. I knew.

Then, suddenly, I did hear it. Muffled cries.

Brandishing the torch, the Vigilant rushed down towards a man who was bound and gagged, leaning against a stone altar. He was draped in a priest's cowl – of what deity, I wasn't sure.

"Thank Stendarr we made it in time." The Vigilant severed the ropes. "I dare not think what those fiends intended with you."

The priest rose. "They will not live to speak of it again."

"On behalf of the Vigil, you have my thanks."

The priest squinted at us in the flickering torchlight. His gaze was intense, solid. "Strange bedfellows."

Outside, carts wheeled by. Faintly. "So how did you get here?" I tried to keep my voice steady.

"I am an initiate of Boethiah."

The Vigilant drew in a sharp breath. "This is…a coven of Boethiah's?"

"No."

"Then what…?"

The priest blew sand off the altar. "I came to claim this for Boethiah's own."

Profane symbols were etched on the altar, and it smelled of rot. A rusty mace sat upon it.

"Abomination," hissed the Vigilant.

The darkness stirred. I drew my cloak tighter around me. "Whose shrine is this?"

The torch flickered out. Deep crimson leaked in through cracks in the walls. " _Mortals._ You dare intrude on my inner sanctuary."

The priest clenched his dagger. "I sanctify this site for the Goddess of Destruction, Deceiver of Nations, She – "

"The fool performs his insulting rites?" The words leapt forth from the darkness itself. "He will forsake the weak and pitiful Boethiah."

"You think you can best Boethiah's faithful?" the priest challenged. But his voice shook.

The darkness surrounded me. "And the girl…yes. Very good. She meets my needs. Azura will bend her knee and cede the girl to me."

 _All the daedra want is your soul._

"No."

"You will serve me."

"I will not."

"You _will_ serve me…and you will enjoy it."

A vice grabbed me. I smelled obsidian, fire salts. I thrashed against the icy hand in my mind.

"And you, fool, will instruct her." The crimson wormed its way around the priest. "So long since I have tasted blood."

Crimson tendrils strangled the Vigilant. Half on his own volition, the priest strode towards him. Blood was rushing through his veins. Eagerness. Excitement. Anticipation.

How could I feel it?

And then I realized.

I was bound to him.

The dagger in his hand was smooth, familiar. A thrust – and the dagger pierced the Vigilant's skin. It was resistant at first – and then was so soft, so pliant, so yielding. He twisted it, shoved it in harder.

A thrill ran through him. This was his life. This was his art. No, this was his worship. He fed the blood to his god.

His eyes flickered over me. His next sacrifice. How did he want to do it? Quickly? The jugular, the kidney. Painfully? The stomach. The lungs. Or slowly? Nipping away at my ears and fingers as I pleaded, until I blacked out and Boethiah plundered my soul?

He threw me against the altar, carved along my face. Blood dripped onto the rocks. He was playing with his prey. He was going to enjoy himself, build up to the kill.

I grabbed the mace. The crimson darkness urged me on.

I thrashed at his head. He leapt away. I crouched like a mountain lion, ready to pounce.

Crimson thrummed around me. Sweat ran down my forehead. He was eager now, ready for the kill.

He thrust. I leapt aside.

He thrust again. I leapt aside.

He thrust. I leapt aside, and then bore the mace down. Joy, blood, excitement rushed through me. Bone cracked. I pounded down again, and again, and again.

A sense of well-being washed over me. Even the pain was exquisite. I was crushing his head. A black void surrounded him. His dying thoughts flickered to…a book. Scripted in daedric. Engraved in his soul. "If this inflames your heart, then know you need to find the shrine of Boethiah, east of the mountains of Windhelm."

The darkness released me.

I was still brandishing the mace, looking for another foe to fell. It had a strange energy. It felt eager. Alive. Ready to leap onto its prey.

It had an inscription, in daedric. _Molag Bal._ The Lord of Domination.

The darkness surrounded me one last time. "I give you its true power, mortal. When your enemies lie broken and bloody before you, know that I will be watching. Know that you _will_ obey me, when you assume your rightful place."

"I…what?"

The darkness faded.

I picked up the priest's dagger. My first trophy. It was curved, sharp, intricately engraved. Beautiful. It fit easily in my hand. I strapped the dagger to my waist, and imagined myself wielding it. Then, I buried the mace in my pack, muffling its alluring voice.

Light trickled back into the room. It smelled of blood. The priest's head was crushed open like a rotten watermelon.

I gaped, and then fled outside.

The innkeep was strolling by. "Back so soon?"

"He fell." I was gasping for breath.

"Oh, a pity." She rushed into the house.

I ran to the stables and boarded a carriage. I willed myself not to think, especially about the mace. I was afraid to touch it, lest I feel….

 _Molag Bal._ The Master had written nothing about him.

Boethiah. The Master _had_ written about her. Cryptically. "The goddess is jealous. She does not suffer the presence of another. My journey ends at her sanctum. May the deeds of our ancestors protect us."

Cicero's words danced in my mind. _You will find what you are looking for_.

The answers were not in Markarth. They were with Boethiah.

And now I knew where to find her.

I wasn't ready yet, though, I realized as we rode. I needed to be stronger. I had been facing only one priest, and had the help of…stronger powers. If there were others, all as eager for the kill….

I still wasn't sure if I could fight, but I now knew I could kill. I knew where to strike, how to strike – and, most importantly, I had the will to strike. Not just the will. The desire. It was like nothing else I had ever tasted.

I got off at Ivarstead. The last rays of the sun had almost disappeared. I closed my eyes for a moment and gave a silent thanks to Azura, and then walked towards the river.

Narfi was there. Flies were still circling him.

He backed away.

"They've sent you for me." He sank down, put his head between his knees, and quavered. "No! Oh, by the gods, please, no! Old Narfi just wants to be left alone..."

The release was heavenly.

After stooping to wash the dagger, my hands, my robes in the river, I headed home.

Nizar was sitting at the table, stirring a bowl of soup. Not eating.

"Brother."

The spoon dropped. He rushed over to me. "I thought ye might not be coming back."

"I wasn't so sure either."

Suddenly, his jaw set. Stern. Hard. Like the Master, when I had done something wrong.

"Yer first kill." He was quiet.

"Yes."

Abruptly, he went to the door. "Babette?"

"Mmm?"

"Recruit's back."

"Told you so."

"Get her some of yer special tea. Another, for me."

Astrid strode in. Her hair was impeccably braided. She grabbed me by the shoulder. "The road to Ivarstead is at most two days."

"I…" Astrid had an iron grip. "Cicero told me the Mother said I needed more training."

" _Cicero?_ " Her voice was almost a growl. "Let me make one thing clear. _I_ am in charge here. You report to me, _not_ Cicero."

"I'm sorry."

She seized my dagger. "I thought he was teaching you archery."

"I…I…."

Wordlessly, she let me go, and turned to Nazir. "Job done?"

"Aye." He ran his hand through his hair, adjusted his scimitar, fiddled with his tunic. "The lass did it."

"Give her another." She stalked out.

Nazir handed me a wooden mug, and cast a blanket over me, then slumped onto another bench. " _M'kai, dura-hi. A_ _jcea, ansu._ " His voice soothed me, even though I couldn't understand him.

The cut on my face throbbed lightly, but it didn't bother me. If anything, it pleased me.

I nestled into the blanket, closed my eyes. The priest. The Vigilant. Narfi. Molag Bal. Boethia. It was too much to take in, all at once.

How were you supposed to feel when people died? Guilty? Competent? I forced myself to remember Rogvirr, his head rolling from the block, his body twitching, my stomach heaving. But all I felt was - content.

"I shouldn't have brought ye into this." Nazir's face was in his hands.

"It wasn't you."

I sipped the tea. Blackberry. Lavender. Mugwort. Imported, probably from Cyrodiil.

"It's never easy, the first time."

"It was wonderful."

"Gods."

I drifted off to sleep. But my dreams were confused, for Azura's light mingled with a black void, and a hint of crimson.

* * *

 **Author notes:**

Redguard language courtesy of "The Imperial Library" website.

tirechanclas: Thanks for the review! I had a creepy moment once when I e-mailed one of the chapters to myself, and my mind misinterpreted the letter as an e-mail to me.


	13. Research

Dear Master,

You always spoke of how the daedra are jealous and compete against each other. However, I have reason to believe they may also sometimes join hands. I will explain more if – when – I see you.

Your servant,

Alzena

* * *

The fire was crackling from the hearth in the common room, but no voices were to be heard. Warily, I peeked in.

Babette was sitting alone at the enormous table, writing quickly but evenly. On the table were the remains of candles, a ream of parchment, and a pile of crumbling books. _Sithis_. _The Truth About the Night Mother. Traitor's Diary._

I yawned. "Where's Nazir?"

"Out."

My head pounded. "Astrid said he had a job for me."

"He'll make haste." Her quill scratched. "Forego his usual ritual."

"Ritual?"

She tore off thin strips of paper and fed them to a candle. "Every time he does a job, he tells himself he's going to quit, make himself into a man that his tribe will be proud of, and go back to the Alik'r and find his family."

"Will he?"

Smoke rose up. "Hasn't yet."

Babette's pen-strokes were elegant, precise. My eyes wandered over to her paper, just as some of my classmates' did during exams. She was inscribing a list of names. Imperial. Some, I recognized.

"So," I hedged, "you've been here a while, right?"

"Ages."

"Know anything about the Mother?"

She slid her paper under the others. "The Mother likes to be mysterious." Her fingers were so deceptively petite. "She chooses one person to speak to, and one person alone. And it's not me."

"And not Astrid," I surmised.

"Not Astrid."

That explained some things.

"Although…." Pursing her lips, she paged through _The Truth About the Night Mother._

"Although what?"

She ran her finger along the page. "Some of the ancient scholars said she's Mephala."

" _What?_ "

"Mephala, the Lord of-"

"I know who Mephala is." _Mephala, the daedric Lord of Death._ "But if the Empire found out-"

"What, you think your Empire's going to come in and butcher us like we're a bunch of cultists of-?" She bit her lip. "Sorry, that was truly thoughtless. Astrid told me you-"

"Consorting with daedra is punishable by death," I reminded her, behind gritted teeth.

She poured herself a cup of tea from a kettle swinging over the fire. "The Emperor needs us," she said, after a few sips. "Who do you think is our best patron?"

The Emperor had presided over our commencement, looking down on us like a proud grandfather. My turn had finally come to walk past his ornate throne, receive his blessing. "Well done, Alzena," he had declared, "daughter of…." He peered at his scroll. "Apologies, _ward_ of Joneleth." I had hurried away, head lowered.

"We'd have to do something rash indeed to attract the wrath of the Empire." She stared into her wooden mug. "Sithis protect us from such folly."

I felt as if I'd swallowed a rose full of thorns.

Back in my chambers, I unwrapped the Master's book. Opening it to the chapter on Mephala, I saw the page was mostly bare. I wrote, "Rumored to be the link between a guild of assassins and the dread lord Sithis."

Then, in the chapter on Molag Bal, I drew his mace as best I could, peppering it with dots to make it look rusty. I wrote of how I'd found his shrine hidden in the bowels of Markarth, but neglected to mention the Vigilant, or the priest. In small, uncertain letters, I added, "May have dealings with Mephala."

The well-worn chapter on Azura was already crammed, but in the margins, I penned a likeness of her star, light glinting off the edges. "The Twilight watches over all," I added with a flourish. Maybe someday I could buy gold leaf.

I finished with a sketch of Sheogorath's staff, and described how he had so casually petitioned for my soul.

There. From now on, I'd add to the Master's book – complete it – even though I wasn't sure why anymore.

Cautiously, I headed over to Festus's workshop. It was secluded, away from the heart of the sanctuary – since, as he put it, he was the "cranky old uncle that no one talks to." That had made him all the easier to avoid.

" _Av molag anyammis_ ," he was chanting. His voice was surprisingly melodious, resonant – like the music tutor's at the Academy. " _Av latta magicka-_ "

Blinding white light assaulted me. A stench rose, worse than a festering swamp.

"Come to delve into my secrets of destruction magic?" he asked hopefully.

Furry tufts were melting onto the stone. "Um…no." His face fell. "I was just wondering if you had some…."

"Speak up, girl. These old ears aren't what they once used to be."

"Fire salts," I mumbled, louder. "And maybe some…um…powdered obsidian?"

He chuckled throatily. "Summoning the denizens of the deep?"

I nodded.

"Them things don't come cheap," he grunted. "I'll need something in return."

My muscles tensed. "What?"

He scratched his chin. Bare, like his head. "Cicero says a lot of folk are going to be sent to Sithis, real soon." Even his eyebrows were threadbare. Was it natural, or had he burnt them off? "Frankly, these bones aren't fit for them long journeys anymore. You could do some of my jobs."

Blood rushed through my veins. "Sure."

"Eager lass, ain't you?" He chuckled again.

"A good mage never turns down the opportunity to practice."

"Hrmph." He ran his hand across his bare head, as if in thought. "Cicero gave me something a while back. Didn't tell me why, or wherefrom."

"What it is?" I asked cautiously.

Reaching behind his bookshelf, he jiggled open a false compartment, and pulled out a scroll. The paper was fine, and tinged with ash. "Damned fool is more foolish than he makes himself out to be, if he thinks I'm addled enough to use this."

No label, no hint of what it did. I unrolled it. " _Mori oiobala, pelinan racuvar. Shanta ehlno, ehlnadaya angua…._ "

Hastily, I rolled it back up.

That was what the Master had incanted, the day he had led me up to the top of the tower, to the room he always kept locked. He had bounded up the stairs – two, three at a time – and I had struggled to keep up.

"Oblivion countenances no mistakes," the Master had warned me, as I bent to look over the runes, his stern, bloodshot eyes bearing down on me.

Then, he handed me a key. Its flaking brass weighed heavily in my hand. "You will know if you need to use this," he said. "If you do…lock the door. From the other side. And go. Do not look back."

I nodded.

Outside the tower, leaves crackled in the breeze.

He strode to the circle. Sunlight glinted onto him from the high window. " _Morio oiobala,_ " he intoned. " _Pelinan racuvar_ …."

A foul mist slid in, blocking the sun.

" _Shanta ehlno_." His voice rose, and echoed off the stones. Something roared. I shivered. " _Ehlnadaya angua…._ "

A black creature came marching out of the mist. Its horns struck the ceiling, and it screamed, then rammed its head against the runes. "You dare call me here, _mortal_?"

I had never heard a summoning speak before.

"You will submit." The Master pounded his staff against the floor. The runes glowed.

"I will tear your heart out," it swore. Instead of fingers, its rocky hands tapered into claws. It swiped at the Master.

I clutched at the key. Sweat was gathering in my palm. Could I really lock the Master in with – _that_?

Its eyes simmered a baleful orange. "I will honor my lord by destroying you."

Wiping his sleeve across his forehead, the Master stripped off his Imperial robes, leaving only his rough tunic and trousers. He brandished a dagger, the dagger he did not show to outsiders. _Dagon's dagger._

And then, he approached the circle.

Ashen scales covered the beast, harder than any plate.

Undaunted, the Master pressed the dagger against the beast's stony chest. "You will honor your lord by obeying me."

"Oblivion awaits," the beast spat. Sulfur and ash rained down.

The Master growled. "Obey your master."

The beast's breaths rasped. My hands shook around the key.

Baring its fangs, it belched. "I submit, mortal _._ " Flames singed the Master's tunic. He didn't seem to notice. "What is your bidding… _master_?"

"I take it I need not warn you why using that scroll be terribly ill-advised," Festus said.

I nodded.

I could never summon a creature like that.

Suddenly, I remembered what Gestor had said, the day I had shown him Sheogorath's staff. _You could use it to summon an unbound dremora._

Could I?

If I could summon – and control – that beast, I would never have to fear again.

"Could gift it to the next fellow having words with me about my evil magicks," Festus suggested.

My hands wrapped around the scroll. "No, I'll keep it. Thanks."

Mollified, Festus resumed destroying things.

I hauled my loot to a nearby clearing – out of Nazir's eyeshot – and got to work. The sun dipped down towards the horizon as I smoothed the dirt, drew a simple circle, inscribed rudimentary runes.

My first summoning circle.

I tested it out with an atronach. It flipped around, enjoying the breeze.

It smiled. I smiled. Atronachs were my favorite, and it knew it.

Out of nowhere, crimson seeped into my mind. The atronach shivered, and shied away. Grasping its reins, I held it down.

It was a beast, like any other beast. And mine to control. I imagined squeezing its neck, digging my nails into it as it struggled-

It trembled, terrified, sending out little splutters of fire.

Guiltily, I let go of the reins.

It flew off, huddling as far away as it could.

What kind of summoner was I?

I made my way back to the sanctuary, leaves crunching under my feet. "Silence, my brother," I murmured. The gruesome door creaked open.

Suddenly, Nazir came sprinting past. "Astrid! Astrid!"

Astrid rushed out. Her hair was a mess, and her leathers were unfastened. "In my quarters. Now." She raised her voice. "Babette!"

Babette hurried into Astrid's room, clutching her papers.

"Cicero knows!" Cicero danced over. "The Mother told him, yes she did. Motierre performed the black sacrament on-"

Nazir growled.

"Cicero's not telling!" He clapped a hand over his mouth. "Cicero's not telling – oh no, no, no!"

Nazir was still breathing hard. I brought him some water. "What happened?" I asked.

"Can't talk about it," he said, between gulps. "But we've been waiting for something like this for years. Decades. Maybe more, even. This will make or break the Brotherhood."

I poured him some more water from the earthenware jug.

"Before I forget," he said, "Astrid told me to tell ye to go to Markarth. Find someone named Muiri. She'll tell ye what to do."

"Markarth…." That was far. I craved quicker blood.

Nazir shuffled his feet. "Ye can still back out. Just say so, and I'll tell Astrid…."

"I'll do it," I told him. "Wouldn't want all that training to go to waste."

Smirking, he pulled out a coin-pouch. "For the first job. I'm sure Astrid told ye, our clients pay handsomely."

I had forgotten. "Thanks."

And then he left me alone with Cicero.

"The Mother likes you now, yes she does." With his bony hand, Cicero reached up and petted my hair.

 _By the Eight._ I edged away.

"She calls to you, doesn't she? In her sweet, sweet voice."

"Who?"

He blinked up at me innocently. "The Mother."

I shuddered.

"The Mother has only one Listener," I reminded him.

Raised voices drifted down the hall. Nazir's. Babette's.

"The Mother calls to all of us," Cicero simpered, "but only her dearest one can hear."

His face was flush against me. He had high, aristocratic cheekbones and tawny brown eyes. But his skin was stretched taut against his face, and his eyes were deep-set, empty.

Like a corpse.

My head hurt. "Cicero?"

"Yes…sister?"

"Got any of Babette's special tea?" I hoped I wouldn't regret this.

He cackled, and ran off. Moments later, he tossed me a satchel.

"Sleep well, sister."

* * *

Author notes:

tirechanclas: Thanks for the review!

" _Av molag anyammis_ , _a_ _v latta magicka_ ": "From fire, life; from light, magic" - Ayleid language

 _"Mori oiobala, pelinan racuvar. Shanta ehlno, ehlnadaya angua…."_ : Vocabulary from the Ayleid language, borrowed from the Imperial Library website

"Walk up to them, introduce yourself, melt all their skin off, and run like the wind. Works every time." - Festus Krex (in-game dialogue)


	14. Raldbthar

Dear Alzena,

You are correct. The daedra do work together, but only to seek their own advantage. Never forget.

Remain inquisitive. Keep your eyes and ears open. Do not rely only on what I have said.

Oblivion never lies, but it rarely tells the whole truth.

Signed,

Master Joneleth

* * *

"You're insane," I told Muiri.

Her perfectly manicured nails caressed the berry tart she set before me.

"You hired me to kill one man," I reminded her. " _One_ man. Not all the thieves at Raldbthar. There must be at least twenty men there."

I knew. I'd spent the better part of a day perched above the ruins, counting.

"Alain's friends are just cutthroats," she sniffed. "I don't care what you to do them. I just want that son of a horker to pay."

She dabbed the smudged charcoal from her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. Pink. Flowered. "Don't you care what he did to me?"

"I…." Nazir hadn't warned me about this part of the job. I was going to throttle him, when I got home.

Her elegant fists clenched. "He told me I was the _beautiful tulip_ he'd waited his whole life for. Beautiful tulip! Can you believe I fell for that?"

I shifted in my chair, coughed a few times.

"And then he… _used_ me – to get close to my friend – to rob her blind!" She rubbed her eyes with the pink flowers.

"Never trust what you can't control."

She gasped. "That's horrid! What kind of heartless …." Her voice hardened. "You don't care, do you? You're just in this for the money." She threw down the kerchief. "Fine. You can have all my wages until I die, if you give that bastard what he deserves."

"Muiri." This job had gone all wrong. "Be reasonable. Even the guards won't take those bandits on."

That, I also knew. I'd offered them all my gold.

Her heavily lined eyes narrowed. "You're nothing like Frabbi said. The fearless Dark Brotherhood, rushing in where soldiers fear to tread. What a joke."

With a knife, I stabbed at the berry tart.

"Please." She clasped my hand. "Do it for me. Woman to woman. Maybe you know what it feels like, to be betrayed by the man you love."

By now, the tart was as mangled as the priest of Boethiah's head. "A contract's a contract," I told her, and stalked out.

Kicking aside pebbles from the road, I made for the stables and climbed into a carriage. The horses' hooves clopped. Across from me hunched a brawny man, a sign of Talos hanging brazenly from his neck.

"War's hit this land hard." He cracked his back. "Talos would have never wanted this in his name. By the divines, when will the Empire learn? You can't outlaw a god."

We rode past a burnt-out stable, a blackened field.

"No." The chain hung heavily around my neck. "You can't."

He kissed the sign of Talos, brought it to his forehead. "Fleeing the war?"

My face was chapped, my robes were stained, and I couldn't remember last time I'd eaten. I'd have thought I was a refugee too. "No."

He squinted. "No?"

A mountain cat loped by.

 _There are powerful spells, which can bind creatures more permanently and stronger to your will._

If he had to do this job, what would the Master do?

"No," I told him. "I'm on my way home."

"A man's last thoughts should be of his home," he said.

It was near midnight when I staggered back into the sanctuary and cast myself onto my blankets. At first light, I headed out to the forest with my staff and scroll.

My robes flapped in the breeze as I paced the runes.

" _Morio oiobala_." Lighting tingled at my hands, eager to strike. " _Pelinan racuvar…._ "

Sheogorath's staff burst to life, a thousand unintelligible tongues jabbering as one.

" _Shanta ehlno_." Winds whipped around me. I thrust the staff against the forest floor. " _Ehlnaya moridor…._ "

Ancient voices slithered through me, screeching above the wind. My hair stood, and the world crashed down around me. I wandered through an endless, sorrowful expanse of lava and screams, ice and darkness, a spiked pendulum rushing towards me….

And then the mists parted, and I saw the beast.

His flawless sable hide shone in the wan sunlight. Orange eyes gleamed like amber. Ivory horns budded into curls. Ashen scales lined up like soldiers. He smelled of fire - a campfire smoldering through the night, promising warmth and cheer.

He was beautiful.

And he was mine.

He shook out his ebon mane. "Mortal."

He wasn't struggling. He wasn't fighting. He wasn't even complaining. "Do you…do you have a name?"

Head held high, he said, "I am a _kynval_."

I frowned. "Is that your name?"

"No." Long black lashes framed his eyes. "All _kynval_ are called _kynval._ Only our lords have names." He chuffed. "I will earn my name by slaying my enemies, and serving my lord."

I wanted to reach out and touch this creature that I had brought into the world. "What lord?"

"The great archlord Mehrunes Dagon."

My muscles tightened.

"Mortal, I assure you," he said, " _kynval_ is a respectable rank."

"It's not that," I said. "It's just…."

"Just what?"

"The great archlord…." I couldn't bring myself to say his name.

His muscles rippled proudly from his arms to his talons. "All my _kyn_ serve the great archlord Mehrunes Dagon." He spat. "Except the traitors."

"Your _kyn_?"

"My clan."

He scooped up a handful of mud and twigs, dangled a worm in his claws, tasted it and spat it out. "The mortal is not what I was expecting."

Dremora had expectations? "How so?"

He snapped the twigs in two and tossed them aside. "The mortal is weak. The mortal is afraid. The mortal is female."

I bit my lip to keep from laughing. "You don't have females?"

"We have," he said, very seriously. "But few. My _kyn-_ brother has one. I am not allowed to touch her."

"Oh."

Flames crackled from his horns, casting a deep ruby glow over his eyes. "Does the mortal have a mate?"

"Me? No." That sort of thing didn't occur to you when you lived in a tower full of books.

The Master had never said anything about wanting a family, either. He never even seemed to want friends. He seemed to go out of his way to avoid people.

The dremora cocked his head. His face was sculpted in sharp, even lines. "My _kyn-_ brother says that mortals are for killing. It is good you didn't bring him here, or he would have torn your heart out."

I did laugh at that, remembering, and then shuddered. The dremora perked up his ears.

My heart quickened. "Do you fight?"

"Yes. _Kynval_ fight."

I drew in a breath. "If I bring you to Raldbthar, will you fight for me?"

He stretched languidly, like a panther in the sun. "The mortal doesn't control me?"

"I do." Remembering the Master, I added, "You will submit."

His flames crackled.

Soon, so blessedly soon, we stood atop the rocks overlooking the ruins. Crisp mountain air blew by. "Raldbthar," I told him. The last remains of a people who had delved too deep, disappeared with barely a trace.

What had Raldbthar been? A keep? A temple? Its solid marble was barely worn. Jagged, ancient calligraphy hinted at mysteries untold. Fearsome gears and clocklike hands still spun, and steam puffed from its innards. A door wrought of gold beckoned towards greater wonders – or, I hoped, Alain.

"Raldbthar." The dremora surveyed the ruins. "Yes. That is not what they called it then."

My jaw dropped. "What? But…."

"Time has no meaning in Oblivion," he said. "Although, I was but a _caitiff_ when they built it. It is hard to explain to mortals."

The gears clanked and whooshed. "What happened to them?" I whispered.

His eyes flashed. "They were proud. They rejected the gods. They profaned the great archlord. They thought their tools and tricks would save them."

"Did the gods destroy them?"

"No." The mountain itself seemed to clink and jangle. "The gods let them destroy themselves."

Now, scraggly men with swords and bows paced the marble stairs. Burlap sacks teetered towards a makeshift cooking pit. Onion peels and broken bottles littered the last traces of a forgotten world. One of the men scratched his armpit.

Raldbthar had fallen.

The dremora's muscles quivered, like a horse spoiling for battle.

"Kill as many of them as you want," I told him. "Except their leader. He's my kill."

The dremora sloshed off through the mud. Birds scattered. He kicked the marble. It cracked, and he hauled up the slab and threw it against a pillar.

Silence fell over the forest. Only the pine needles rustled in the breeze.

And then, a man screamed – a scream that chilled my bones. Footsteps pounded through the foliage. Someone fell, rose, fell again.

Rock tumbled down. Bone snapped. Stone crashed, crushed into a thousand pieces.

Ash stung my eyes, and a warm wind hit me. Metal rattled. "Alain! Alain! We're-" There was a sickening crunch, and the screech of claws against gold. The twisted door plunged down the mountain.

Men were yelling, running. The dremora hauled a burly man out, his muscles bulging under his ripped shirt. Black bile oozed from a gash in the dremora's side.

I clambered over a broken dais. Soot coated the pristine marble of Raldbthar. A severed arm dangled from a statue. Burning apples and cabbages mingled with the scent of blood. A charred shoe sat on the stairs. I crunched over a chiselled inscription, next to half a man.

This was Oblivion.

This was what Dagon had tried to do to our world.

This was why I had been bound to the Master – so this would never happen again.

"She sent you, didn't she?" Alain wrestled against the dremora. "She's crazy. She'd do anything for revenge."

The dremora growled.

Alain's voice rose to a fever pitch. "She'd call demons down into our world!"

I curled into a fetal position, buried my face in my robes.

"Get it off me," pleaded Alain. "We can do it. We can fight. We can send it back to the hell it came from."

"I have a job to do." My voice was muffled, quaking.

"Are you an idiot?" A warm liquid flowed underneath me. "It's a godsforsaken demon. It'll rip your head off next!"

My eyes squeezed shut, I felt around my pack for the rough haft of Molag's mace. I embraced it, inhaled its familiar scent.

"Divines, hear our call," Alain whispered. I had heard that quiet certainty once before. Solitude. Rogvirr. "Deliver us from your enemies, the destroyers of your world…."

I no longer smelled ash. I only smelled blood.

"Hold him down," I commanded the dremora. The dremora thrust Alain's face into the dust. Alain thrashed and grunted. The mace beat down.

Slowly, so very slowly, he yielded to Sithis.

It had been far too long.

I sank down onto the blood-stained marble, next to a fallen engraving of a wildflower. Blood and flesh clung to my robes.

"The mortal is not weak," the dremora said.

I huddled up against his warm scales, willing the wasteland around me to disappear.

With his arched talons, the dremora brushed the ash off of my face. "You wish to peer into Oblivion," he said. "That is the real reason you called me here."

From inside the mountain, the gears still whirled – but now limping, weak.

"Yes." My voice sounded tiny against the desolation around us.

His stroked my hand. "If you call me back, I will bring you more of the knowledge you seek."

Sand blew against the cracks in the ancient marble. The dremora's eyes shone like brilliant stars in the darkest of nights. I traced my fingers along his smooth obsidian face, his fur, his horns. He trembled, and a rush of power flowed through me.

"I will," I told him. "You are my dremora."

* * *

Author notes:

tirechanclas: One thing's for sure...the Mother seems to have an agenda.

Please forgive me if I misspelled "Ralbdthar". It's even more difficult to type than it is to say!


	15. The Book

Dear Master,

You wouldn't believe what I have! I can't write about it.

Your servant,

Alzena

* * *

Astrid leaped up from her bed. "You're back?" She felt along my face. "With nary a scratch!"

I nodded, numb. _Stone chunks crashed down, and the dremora scooped me up in his strong arms as I sobbed into his warm chest._

Voices drifted in from the common room as Astrid stood uncomfortably, fiddling with her gown, her sleeves, her braids. When had she ever been at a loss for words?

Finally, it hit me. She hadn't expected me to come back. Unsteady, I sank down onto her pillows. "You don't want me here, do you?"

She shuffled her feet on the embroidered rug. "It's not you. You're a lovely girl. A credit to this family."

"Then what is it?"

She heaved a sigh. "Cicero."

"Cicero?" I grimaced. "But you know I don't…I mean…I usually avoid him –"

She barked out a laugh. "Fool deserves it! That madman paraded you in like his pet. _The Mother wants her, yes she does!_ No respect for my authority. Almost started a mutiny."

 _The priest's head smashed open as I beat down on it with Molag's mace._

She squeezed my hand. "But you've more than proven yourself. Might even thank that Cicero. Whatever you're doing, keep it up."

 _Bone crushed as pillar rolled down the marble stairs._

"But" – Astrid tugged at my blood-stained robes – "best not walk around looking like a butcher." She rummaged through through her wooden wardrobe and tossed something to me. "Here. This should fit."

I gasped. Pitch black leather armor. Like hers, just not as ornate.

"Welcome to the family." She hugged me. "What are you waiting for? Put it on!"

A yellow lantern cast a warm glow over me as I examined the leathers in Astrid's mirror, the scent of baking bread wafting in. They fit perfectly, like an obsidian second skin, the color of night.

A skip in my step, I grabbed Sheogorath's staff and headed off to the forest.

The dremora seemed fascinated by the black leathers. He sniffed them, and rubbed them with his talons. My skin tingled.

"Your commander must respect you." His orange eyes flickered down my legs, and I blushed. "You will soon rise among the ranks."

His deep, guttural accent sent shivers down my spine. "Your duties are not dissimilar to those of a _kynval_." _Kynval_ – it danced in my ears. "If you petitioned, you might be accepted into the service of the great archlord. I could ask my _kyn-_ brother-"

I finally caught up with what he was saying. "No!"

He pursed his soft lips. "Why not?"

 _Raldbthar groaned as I gagged at the scent of dead flesh._

"Because Dagon tried to destroy our world." Huddling closer, I buried my face in his chest.

Stroking my hair, he traced his talons on the dirt, etching a knotty, labyrinthine pattern. "Do not your people also slay us?"

I looked down at the dirt. "It's different."

"How?"

Shortly after I had been apprenticed, the Master had taken me to the city square. Imperial soldiers dragged in a priest of Azura, tied in ropes, as peasant men jeered and threw rotten tomatoes. Then, the soldiers thrust the priest onto the gallows. The world spun around me, and I sank to the ground. With bloodshot eyes, the Master leant down and whispered, "Now you see why our work must remain secret?"

Shaking off the memory, I leaned closer to the dremora. His shoulders had slumped, and my heart wept.

"If you would learn about the _kyn_ , you should learn from us. Not from our enemies." He set a book on my lap.

The pages were torn, and the binding cracked. Jagged runes whirled around the cover. Crushed pumice and silver leaf zigzagged within a fearsome letter _oht_ , sparks leaping from it.

 _Dagon's gift to his most fanatical priest, penned by the archlord's own hand. Showing the priest_ _how to summon_ a _portal to an incredible paradise._ _The priest leapt into the portal, and Dagon's cultists followed – and cast themselves into the void. The abyss roared, ablaze with their screams. For the paradise was for the priest – and the priest alone – but Dagon hadn't told them that. Dagon had deceived them all – all without telling a single lie._

That was what my Master had said.

There was no reason to keep my apprenticeship secret from the dremora. It was the Imperials who threatened me and my Master – not the dremora. "My Master would give anything to see this."

"Your Master?"

"At the Academy. In Cyrodiil." Wishing he were here, I squinted at the whirling letters. Daedric characters swarmed around geometric motifs.

A strange burble rose from the dremora's chest. Was something wrong? Eyes glistening, he murmured, "You are Joneleth's servant?"

I jerked back. The book clattered to the dirt. "You…you know my Master?"

"He is known in our realm. He controls _markynaz_."

He spoke with awe – even fear.

" _Markynaz_?" I stammered.

He bowed his head. "Our lords."

Leaves rustled.

Clambering to his knees, the dremora kissed the book, and kissed my hand. "I am honoured to be bound to Joneleth's servant."

"You know my Master," I whispered.

His shining scales dappled his broad chest, winding down to his thick, powerful legs. His rich skin was darker than the rarest ink, and his arched talons were as smooth and white as the most precious pearl. His coral eyes blazed behind their curtain of lashes.

 _I didn't have to keep any secrets from him._

He was redolent of fire and ash, of blood and the void, mingled with the sweetest musk. Gazing into his glimmering eyes, I touched his soft, dark face. He drew me closer, and my heart pounded.

Pages fluttered in the breeze as the book lay there, forgotten.

Suddenly, a scimitar came flying at us.

"Run!" hissed Nazir.

The dremora lashed at him. I jumped between them. Fire spluttered from his horns. " _Raga_ ," he sneered.

Nazir's eyes bulged. " _Hay m'kai, zan-dek, mogo. Dura-hi!_ "

The dremora snarled. "You do not know your tribesmen, _raga_ , if you think your shamans do not consort with my _kyn_."

Nazir's brown hands were shaking on his scimitar.

"Put down the sword," I ordered.

Nazir stood, transfixed.

"You will do as I say." I reached for the staff.

"B…by…b..by Sithis!" He thrust his sword in my face. "It's b…bewitched ye!"

"Get that away from me!"

He pointed it back at the dremora. "It's…S...Sithis be damned…it's s…s…straight out of the h…hells."

"You're not going to hurt him," I warned. "He's _mine_."

A firm, muscular talon wrapped itself around my shoulders, its deep black mirroring my leathers. My pulse quickened.

Nazir gaped. "If ye were in the Alik'r…they'd h…have yer head."

"We're not in the Alik'r."

He took a faint breath. "That we're not."

I glared. "Now that we've established that we're not in the Alik'r, and you're not going to hurt my summoning…what – in the name of the gods – are you doing here?"

"Need to talk." His voice was still shaking.

"What's so important that it couldn't wait?"

He pointed his scimitar at the dremora. "Without that _thing_."

Reluctantly, I sent the dremora home. Dust stirred where he had once stood. Lingering a moment, I kissed Sheogorath's staff, and whispered him my thanks. What had I done for Sheogorath to grant me such a gift?

Something thumped. I turned. Nazir was striking his face against a tree. _Thump._ "In the Alik'r…they tell of demons and humans…consorting…."

My cheeks heated. "That's ridiculous."

 _Thump. Thump. Thump._ "Looked that way to me!" _Thump._ "Yer even dressed like it!"

Dried leaves were falling. Bark was flying everywhere.

"Get a hold of yourself!" I yelled.

He drew himself up. His forehead was bruised.

"Of course we're close," I told him. "We're bound."

" _What?_ " he shrieked.

"Not like _that._ " I stood between him and the tree before he could start hurting himself again. "I feel what he feels, and he feels what I feels. That's how I control him."

He grimaced. "Yer opening yer soul up to that monster?"

"That's how summoning works," I told him. "Evil magicks, right?"

He nodded vigorously.

"You said it yourself," I reminded him. "I'm no _ansei._ This is the only way I can stay alive."

He ran his hand through his dark beard, and then kicked the tree.

"You wanted to talk?" I asked in a tight voice.

"Aye." He was looking everywhere except at me.

"About what?"

His brown skin turned a deep red. "Put yer clothes back on first."

I glared again. "I don't know if Astrid told you about my last job, but my robes are ruined."

"Get yerself some new ones." His voice was strained.

"All right."

Grunting, he paced the forest floor, crushing ants and flowerbuds beneath his boots. "It's about the family."

Thank the heavens he was finally calming down. "What is it?"

He looked out across the trees. "Cicero's been giving us worrisome jobs. Imperial. High-ranking. Claims they're from the Mother."

"So?"

He took in a deep breath. "Babette thinks that Cicero's trying to bring the Empire down on us."

Branches creaked in the breeze.

Nazir's thick jaw jutted. "Doing these jobs is folly. We're not going to dig our own graves."

 _In the abyss, Dagon's faithful screamed as his minions tore their claws into their flesh._

"Me, Babette, Anjborn – we're ready to fight Cicero, as long as Astrid gives us the go-ahead." He swallowed. "I need to know yer with us."

Ash and fire still lingered in my mouth. "You can't fight a god."

He stared incredulously. "Yer siding with that madman?"

"It's not about Cicero. It's about the Mother."

"The Mother's a dried-up piece of corpse!"

"No, she's not. She's powerful. And if you cross her, she'll kill us all."

His nostrils flared. "Ye've lost yer mind. That demon stole it away!"

"I know things you don't."

He eyed me suspiciously. "How?"

"I can't tell you." I bit down on my lips.

"What ye know would get ye killed in the Alik'r!"

With all my might, I clenched my fists. My nails dug deep into my skin. Crimson blood trickled down.

Nazir stared, his brown eyes wide.

"All she wants is to kill," I told him. "And to kill again. And again. And again. She doesn't care if it's you, or me, or Cicero, or the whole Empire. All she seeks is death."

Nazir edged back.

"You can't fight her. You can't escape her. All you can do is appease her." My voice choked. "Show her you're worth keeping alive – so you can bring her more blood."

"Yer not talking sense. Come on home. Babette'll cure ye of that demon's curse."

The wind whipped against my leathers. "I care about you. I care about the family. I'm with the Mother."

* * *

Author notes:

tirechanclas: Thanks for the tip! Added a couple more action verbs to Chapter 14.

I have to say this has really made me appreciate the enormousness of Bethesda's project. I've spent more time than I'd like to admit reading debates over things such as "Is the Night Mother really Mephala?" and perusing the Imperial Library. I do have to admit that one of my critiques of Skyrim is that it lacked depth, but it certainly doesn't lack backstory!


	16. The Wedding

Chapter 16: The Wedding

Dear Alzena,

Whatever you have found, keep your wits about you. The daedric masters are treacherous. They would deceive with a gift, rather than a lie.

Signed,

Master Joneleth

* * *

The next morning, Astrid shoved a heavy, silk-wrapped box at me, as I blinked in the wan light. Summoning the dremora had drained me more than I had realized.

"Get yourself dolled up." Astrid's voice was curt. "You're going to a wedding." Pushing back a limp hair, she turned back to an enormous tactical map.

I opened the waterstained card dangling from a garish ribbon. _Vittonia Vicci._ My stomach sank. Everyone knew her – or, rather, knew _of_ her. She was the Emperor's cousin, or something.

"Target's the bride," Astrid clarified, still bent over the map.

"Oooh!" Cicero rubbed his gloved hands together – frayed, white, dirty gloves. "Do it when they're taking their vows!"

Astrid whirled around. "Absolutely not!" She turned towards me. "Be discreet. No witnesses. If the Empire founds out it's us, we're finished."

I nodded. Heading back to my room, I glanced again at the card. _Solitude._ My stomach sank even further. Solitude was far. Hastily, I tossed my things in my pack. The sooner I finished my job, the sooner I could get back to my dremora. Unless…

Casually, I wandered back to the common room, staff in hand.

Just as casually, Nazir leaned across the doorway. Where had he come from?

"Going somewhere?" His voice was just loud enough for me to hear. His eyes flickered to the staff, and he showed no signs of moving. Gods – even the Master hadn't shown this much interest in what I did.

Feeling my face flush, I retreated to my room and hid Sheogorath's gift away. All I needed was for Nazir to tell Astrid about – what _had_ I been doing, anyway? _Consorting_?

At the temple the Master dragged me to every week, the round-faced priest used to drone on and on about the sanctity of the conjugal bond, as I silently conjugated old Aldmeris. Our dormitory headmistress was blunter, and told those of us without fathers that if she caught us sneaking around, she'd toss us out to rot in the gutter. But that was all about humans. No one had ever mentioned dremora.

And – come to think of it – the Master had never mentioned anything about this at all.

I stomped all the way to Falkreath, where I caught the carriage to Solitude. As I heaved the box onto the seat, a woman with parched skin glared, and, guiltily, I shoved it onto the floor to make way for a young man without an arm, and a boy clutching a squirming rabbit.

It wasn't as if I was looking forward to seeing Solitude again, but when we finally arrived, I almost didn't recognize it. The guards had tripled, and a chunk of the walls had been blown off. The alchemist's shop had been burnt down, and fresh dirt topped the graveyard.

Must be the war.

How was I supposed to do my job with all these soldiers milling around? Astrid had said to be discreet.

Even without them, I was way out of my league. I had only ever been to one wedding, and that was because the Master had made me go. All the nobles had politely pretended not to stare, and, by the time we got back, I had been ready to bludgeon the Master.

The wedding had been for the son of some commander who sometimes dropped by. Although, he and the Master hardly seemed like friends – at least not judging by the litany of curses that came from the Master's mouth. Once, the Master had even sworn at him - to his face - in old daedric. I froze. Was the commander going to take the Master away? But he simply smiled, and headed out onto the street, his armor clanking, a satisfied smile on his leering face.

The shadow of a guard interrupted my reverie, and I disappeared into the street. This was ridiculous. I couldn't just stand here. What I needed to do was take Vittonia down before the wedding. But how?

Looking for something familiar, I headed into the shop I used to sell my things at.

The shopkeeper's copper eyes widened. "Alzena? Is that you?" She threw her arms around me. "You look great! Is that a tan?"

I put on a smile. "Great to see you too."

Her eyes travelled along my leathers. "Nice," she complimented, feeling the fabric at my wrist. "Hey, ever figure out what that staff did?"

"Mmm-hmm." If only she knew.

"You'll have to tell me all about it." She pulled over a rickety chair.

"Actually, I'm here to look up someone back home." That sounded reasonable. "Name's Vittonia. She's getting married." Thankfully, it wasn't a lie – I had never been a good liar.

The shopkeeper's rouged lips widened into an 'o'. "The one who's having the big wedding?"

Maybe she could help. "That's the one."

She drew her hands together. "You _know_ her?"

I patted the inordinately heavy box. "Here for the wedding."

"I can't believe it!" She jumped up and down, and then eyed me conspiratorially. "She's having a fitting for some… you know" – she winked – "for the honeymoon at the Radiant Raiment today. We could drop on by."

A lead. "I'd like that."

Shortly after noon, we sat in the Radient Raiment. Taarie, the proprietor, clucked at me. "I hope you're not planning on wearing that that to the Blue Palace."

"Hmm?" I had been eyeing her cheekbones. She looked just like a statue – just like Nelacar, way back in Winterhold. Why had Nelacar been so bitter about Azura, anyway? Azura was hardly the monster that the Empire made her out to be.

"You young ladies always have your minds on young men," Taarie joked.

"Oh, so that's what you've been keeping from me," teased the shopkeeper.

"No young men," I blurted out. That was the truth.

"A shame." The shopkeeper looked disappointed.

"I was saying," said Taarie, "you best not be planning on wearing that to the Blue Palace."

Astrid _had_ said to dress up. I fingered some robes hanging by the wall. At least that would placate Nazir. "Got anything like this?"

She looked at me disbelievingly. "Why?" She paused. "Oh, you must be one of them mage types."

"Something like that," I said.

"No fashion sense." She caressed a deep bronze robe, with purple trim. "This should fit," she said. "Matches your eyes."

I pulled the thick fabric over my leathers. I had never bought clothes for myself. I had no idea how much they were supposed to cost, or how to choose.

I looked at the shopkeeper. "What do you think?"

"Brilliant." Her eyes were still sparkling.

"I'll take it," I told Taarie. I didn't ask the price – I'd always heard that if you had to ask the price at the Radiant Raiment, you didn't belong there. Hopefully I had enough. I probably did, now.

"Perfect." She wrapped it up and I added it to my pack. Never hurt to have extra clothes. Scrubbing blood off the leathers wasn't easy, and walking into town dripping with blood was never advisable.

"That all?" asked Taarie.

The copper-curled shopkeeper started browsing another rack of dresses. "Still looking," she said.

Taarie was beginning to look annoyed.

Finally, the door opened, little bells tinkling, and Vittonia walked in. "Wait here," she told a balding man in shining chain mail.

Now was my chance. But…in front of Taarie and the shopkeeper? I'd have to kill them all.

That wouldn't be very discreet.

"Go up to her," urged the shopkeeper.

"I…." This was awful. What was I supposed to say – _greetings, how's your family?_

The shopkeeper rolled her eyes. "Excuse me!" she sang out. "Your friend from Cyrodiil is just dying to see you." She looked at me pointedly. "Alzena?"

I cringed. Hopefully Vittonia couldn't remember the guest list. "Greetings," I said. "How's your family?"

Vittonia's dewy forehead creased. "I'm sorry." Her voice was as soft and gentle as her skin. "I'm afraid I can't recall you."

"Oh," I hedged, "we were in the capital together."

She pursed her lips. "What house are you from?"

"Joneleth's," I said. She frowned. "He spends most of his time at the Academy."

Her green eyes were round and confused. "It's so terribly hard to keep track of all these names and faces," she confessed. "I'm sure you know how it is."

She looked so small, against all of the dresses hanging from the walls. She held up a nightdress of soft pink silk. "So, what brought you to Skyrim?"

"Work."

"Oh." She looked at me pityingly. "I'm sorry. Don't feel bad. With the war, a lot of people are going through hard times."

"Actually," I said, "my family's doing quite well. They've got a big deal coming up ahead."

She smiled. Through the window, the sunlight danced in her eyes. "Hope it works out." Squeezing my hand, she moved on to an ivory satin, with embroidered lace. "I can't believe I'm getting married!" She looked at Taarie. "Which one do you think he'd like?"

Did dremora like these things? He probably didn't care. Another reason to prefer him to human males. Let them play around with this silliness.

For the next few days, I tried as hard as I could to get in to where she was staying, but Solitude had become a fortress. At night, swords clashed, and, in the morning, the streets smelled of blood. I bided my time, imagining what I would do when I got back to the forest. And as the wedding came closer, I began to panic.

Then the wedding day came. Panic turned to sheer terror. What would Astrid do if I failed? Would she kick me out? Forget that – what would the Mother do? Would she kill us all?

The reception was in the castle courtyard. It was packed, and I pulled my hood over my face, praying I wouldn't see anyone I knew. Cicero must truly have been mad, to even think of taking her down in this crowd. It would have started a riot.

Bards were playing, and a priest of Mara was sprinkling rose water onto the crowd, cloying at my senses. "Mara bless ye!" he intoned. "Mara bless ye!"

Honey nut treats and sweetrolls were passed around, and wines and nectars were handed around in goblets. I had never seen such luxury – Sheogorath notwithstanding.

A hunch-backed woman sat next to me. "Mayhaps this union will put a stop to all that fighting." She dabbed at her wrinkled eyes. "Imperial lass, marrying one of our strapping young men. Just goes to show – that war's just foolishness."

I nodded and hoped she would stop talking. I didn't need to attract attention.

Vittonia's groom walked her up the stairs. She was glowing, and his head was held high.

"So nice." The woman dabbed her eyes again, tears glistening. "They have their whole future ahead of them. Look at them. They're so in love." Her voice shook at the end.

What I had with the dremora, of course, was far better. Two humans could never experience the closeness of being bound.

They recited their vows, and the groom kissed her. The crowd burst into applause. I had rarely seen anyone kiss. My body tingled, and I thought of the dremora. Then, as people threw flowers and coins, they gracefully floated down the stairs, and towards an ornate carriage.

Slipping out, I trailed behind them with the entourage. Thank the divines, the carriage was for show, not speed. It even had glass windows. The driver wouldn't risk breaking those.

The bride waved amidst songs and more flowers. Suddenly, her eyes fell on me. "You're the one from Cyrodiil, aren't you?"

"Yes." This wasn't the best time to attract attention.

"Lovely to meet you." She pulled a purple mountain flower from her hair and tossed it to me. "Hope your lucky day comes soon!"

They rode off. I followed, in the shadows.

As soon as the carriage left the city gates, I disappeared into the trees, keeping pace behind them. The road twisted and turned, so I could keep up going straight, but sweat pooled in my robes. I pulled them off, leaving only my leathers, and stuffed them into my pack. Now, I blended into the night.

Mercifully, the cage was still crawling along, but I couldn't count on that forever.

From the shelter of the trees, I called upon an atronach. "Yrrgh," I told it. I wasn't going to chance this on my own.

The atronach danced over them. "What in the name of the Eight?" the driver muttered, halting the horses. The groom leapt out, sword in hand.

With one shot, the atronach blew out the glass. The carriage fell onto its side – onto Vittonia.

Her husband screamed, a scream that shook my bones.

Blood was oozing out of Vitonia, and she was on fire.

Frantically, he started beating his cloak against the flames. Her pale face was rapidly charring. Strange lowing noises were coming from her.

The atronach shot again.

Her leg splattered. Brandishing his sword, her husband leapt up onto the carriage and swung it at the atronach, just out of reach.

Steel boots pounded down the road. "Ysmir's beard!" someone swore. "We're under attack!" He let out a screeching whistle.

More steel boots came running along. Crossbows thwanged. With a yelp, the atronach disappeared.

I froze. Would they find me? I didn't dare whisper the words to call upon another creature. Curse Nazir for keeping me from my staff. If I'd had the dremora, this would have all been over.

Hours passed – or at least, seemed to – as I hid, motionless, black on black, in the shadows. Boots tromped towards me and away. The man was still screaming. Someone led him away.

Keeping off the main road, I crept to the next city, and then kept walking. What if someone had sent word?

Eventually, covered in brambles, I boarded a carriage. It was a long ride back. Her husband's scream kept going through my head.

That would be me, if I were separated from the dremora.

Exhausted, I stumbled home. "Silence, my brother," I called.

Astrid was waiting by the door. She grabbed my shoulder. "Job's done?"

"Yes."

She let go. "Talos be praised." She grabbed my shoulder again. "Discreet?"

I hesitated. "Almost."

She shoved me against the wall. "What do you mean, _almost_?"

"I did it outside the city," I stammered.

"Witnesses?"

"I…." Vittonia had spoken to me in the carriage. Would that be enough for her husband to remember me? "I don't know," I said lamely.

Wordlessly, Astrid stalked into the common room. Metal crashed against stone.

When I got back to my quarters, all I could see was my staff.

I forgot everything as I clasped its live wood, whispering with Sheogorath's clear voice. Tears streamed from my eyes. I kissed it, reverently, and then ran out the door and into the forest. It was dark, the only light a pale starlight, but I ran anyway, tripping over rocks and stones.

" _Mori_ _oiobala_ ," I chanted. " _Pelinan racuvar…._ "

Nothing happened. I thrust the staff against the ground. The runes were dark, lifeless. " _Mori oiobala_ ," I repeated. This couldn't be happening. Had the staff run out of charges?

Laughter tittered through the staff, grating on my already frayed nerves. I threw it against the ground and sobbed. I clasped Azura's star, begged for help, but felt no quarter there. Had the gods all turned against me?

Far off, thunder crashed.

Inspiration flooded through me. In the downpour, I ran back to the sanctuary, grabbed the _Mysterium Xarxes_ , and darted back to the forest.

Out of breath, I paged through the book in the light of a lantern, punctuated by white-hot flashes of lightning. What did I need for a portal? A sprig of bane. A daedric heart. Where would I get all that?

But I didn't need a portal. I didn't need to go to that foolish priest's paradise. All I needed was to bring back the dremora.

Spark danced off the _oht._ I cursed myself. Here I was holding a book of power, and I was playing with trifles.

Solemnly, I set it in the centre of the circle. The runes glowed.

The thunder grew nearer. I held the staff to the _oht_. Power flowed back into the staff, and the runes burned brighter. " _Moro oiobala_ ," I whispered, praying beyond prayer. Energy flowed through me, and then disappeared. I clasped the staff tighter.

"Please," I begged. "By the great archlord…."

A thousand laughing voices came to life.

Thrusting the staff down, I rent the veil between our worlds.

* * *

Author note:  
Guest and tirechanclas: Thanks for your support! I had a severe case of Real Life the past few months which precluded me from writing. Hope you like the chapter!


	17. The Dremora

Dear Alzena,

Are you there?

Signed,

Master Joneleth

* * *

The glistening snowpack of stars above had shifted, and the runes reflected their pale light, their energy spent. Shivering in the pine-scented breeze, I nestled into the dremora's warm chest. My leathers lay in the grass, forgotten.

His soft lips brushed against mine. "I thought you weren't going to call me."

"I couldn't." A lump formed in my throat.

He pointed a talon at the staff. "It's that, isn't it?"

I nodded. If I spoke, I might burst into tears.

"I know its power," he said, seriously.

The corners of my lips danced up, and the night chill lifted. "I know you do."

What madness had overtaken me? As I had called out the great archlord's name – by the Eight, what had I been thinking? – I had loomed over the circle like a terrible archmage, my palms sweating against the staff, and had uttered a word of command that had brought the dremora's burning body towards me.

Not that he had resisted.

A laugh gurgled up from him, resonant and otherworldly. He took me back into his arms, and my head spun at the fire and incense, the ash and musk.

His orange eyes glimmered, like twin gems. "The mad lord is fickle."

"You know him?"

He stretched luxuriously. "I know many things that the mortal does not."

I ran my finger along the soft skin of his neck where, in a fit of raw power, I had bit it, and had licked the blood as he roared in my arms. _You smell of Oblivion_ , he had said.

"He delights in uncertainty," the dremora continued, and a sudden chill brought me to my senses. "One day you will call me, and I will not be able to come."

And the mad lord would laugh…and laugh…and laugh….

How could I have been so naïve? Sheogorath hadn't just given me a gift. He had taunted me, and I had fallen right into his trap.

There was so much more of the dremora to explore. Sheogorath wasn't going to take him from me now. "What should we do?"

His leathery palm brushed against mine. "If I cannot come to your world, you must come to mine."

 _Dagon's cultists leaped into the portal, and into the abyss…._

My hand jerked back. "I can't." This was insane. "I'm a mortal."

He looked at me earnestly. "Mortals have walked in our world before."

Like the Hero of Kvatch – the one who had driven Dagon's forces out.

I shuddered. "I can't just…go there." The Master would have had my head.

"No, you can't." Pulling away he sat up primly, like a statue of one of the old gods.

Relief washed over me. "You agreed rather quickly."

"You are weak." His words stung, even though half of Skyrim knew it was true. The other half simply never saw me before I struck. "You could not tolerate our realm. This is why the unworthy who entered it suffered."

Like the priests.

"But" – he leaned forward – "the great archlord can give you the strength. Swear fealty to him. He will – "

"No!"

Once, the Master had caught an emaciated fanatic trying to revive Dagon's cult. Instead of turning him in to the castle guards – like he was supposed to – he whispered something into the man's ear, and the man followed him up to the top of the tower, salivating like a timber wolf, to the room he always kept locked. I pressed my ear against the cold stone door, but it was as if the Master had gone mute.

Suddenly, a snake writhed through me. A daedric word of command. I recoiled. The priest bolted out, followed by fire and sulphur and the taint of burning flesh. The Master let him go, his hands shaking, his eyes wild.

The dremora's voice brought me out of my reverie. "Don't you want to be together?"

He had to be joking. We were bound – he knew exactly what I wanted. "Of course I do."

"Then why…?"

I hugged my knees. The starry sky suddenly seemed overwhelming. Far-off – very far-off – voices clamoured. Probably Sheogorath's. I shut them out.

His lip trembled. "You don't like me?"

My body was peppered in bruises from where I had brought his towering weight onto me, and I couldn't pull away as his delicious flames coursed through my veins. "You have to ask?"

His broad chest rose as he took in a deep breath. "I am from my world. Everything in my world is imbued with the great archlord's essence. If you like me, you will like my world."

Above the treetops, a pillar of lightning leapt up. I stiffened. That wasn't Sheogorath. A few second later, a muffled boom followed. Mages? Artillery?

At least it wasn't coming from the sanctuary.

"You fear."

Shame flooded through me, but I couldn't lie. Not with the bond.

The dremora wrapped his arm around me, and the far-off voices faded away.

"Your world is small, fragile." His now-familiar voice soothed me. "If you beheld the vast, sandy plains of our world…the smoky mountains under the perpetual sunset…the warm breeze in our illuminated nights…."

The soft curve of the dremora's broad shoulders was beyond the hand of any artisan. His exquisite feet were clothed in a rich leather that would have put any bootmaker to shame. He was redolent of fire and ash, dragonroot and incense. He was nothing like the Dagon that I had known.

I stroked his face, and shivers leapt across the bond into my soul. "You are the most beautiful thing in the world," I confessed, tasting his skin, savouring the spice of cinnamon and power.

A soft breath escaped him, and crickets chirped around us.

Flames crackled from his horns. "You are mine."

His pearly scales shone like diamonds – hard and precious – and his sable hide glowed in the wan starlight. "No," I told him. "You are mine."

"I am a _kynval_ ," he whispered, "and you are _my_ mortal."

A smile flitted across my face. "As it should be?"

"As it should be." Cradling me in his arms, he hummed an otherworldly song. "You are mine," he repeated. "You will always be mine. When I earn my name, you will be with me. In my world. Forever."

* * *

knightsofsprite and Guest - Thanks for your encouraging comments!


	18. The Staff

Chapter 18: The Staff

Dear Alzena,

Maybe you are angry. You have every right to be. I'm sure you've discovered by now that I wasn't entirely forthright with you. It's not because I don't care. Alzena, my hands are tied, in a way that I wish to the Eight you would never understand. Have mercy on an old man and remember what I taught you. Skyrim is dangerous, but Oblivion is sheer peril.

Signed,

Master Joneleth

* * *

Back in the warmth of the sanctuary, I lingered in the bath, savouring the tang of lavender as if for the first time. I should have been in pain. My body was still black and blue. But fire and flames rushed through me, a glow I had no name for.

I _would_ follow the dremora all the way to Oblivion.

But…not through Dagon. I crumpled the letter and shredded it. The Master didn't need to tell me that he'd been less than honest – but even he couldn't have been lying about Dagon.

It wasn't what he said, but, rather, what he didn't – his hushed tones, the sweat beading down his forehead, the way he stilled like a frightened bird whenever the town crier recited the legend of the Hero of Kvatch.

Like the dremora, the Master avoided mentioning Dagon by name.

Rubbing myself with a thick towel, I combed my hair and put on my new robes, then slipped through the common room before Astrid could give me another job.

Astrid didn't seem to see me, though. She didn't seem to be seeing anything. She was slumped in her chair at the head of the table. With a quill, she stabbed at her ponderous map. Festus was sitting next to her, grimacing every time the quill hit the papyrus.

"I'm sure he got out." Festus spoke in a low, sympathetic voice, but he wasn't looking straight at her. "You don't last that long as a brother for nothing."

Festus and Astrid were talking? I'd never seen them talk before. In fact, I'd never seen Festus talk to anyone.

With a low growl, Astrid snapped the quill in two. Blue ink dripped onto the paper. "They could have warned us! Talos' blood, we're as much part of this land as they are. What kind of resistance sends in a bevy of mages without warning the commonfolk?"

Mages. That explained the lightning.

Festus took in a deep breath. "Perhaps," he proffered, "old Ulrich was put out by our…ahem…recent visit to Fort Krastav."

"He of all people should know better than to mix work and sentimentality." Astrid sighed. "I should be more grateful. Truth be told, the resistance did us a bigger favour than they know, taking down Fort Neugrad."

"Those were some fireworks," Festus agreed, relaxing in his chair. "Maybe them College lads ain't such milk-drinkers after all."

The College had done that? Had anyone I knew been there? Brianna? The archmage? Gestor? I pulled my robe protectively around me, although I wasn't sure why.

Astrid shook her head. "All those imperial lackeys so near our doorstep were keeping me up at night."

Fixing his beady eyes on Astrid, Festus drew in a breath. "Them imperials been sending their errand boys to you again?"

A trail of ink flowed off the paper onto the dirt floor. Festus waited.

Wrinkles creased Astrid's alabaster face. "I care about this family," she finally said. "This family is my life, and I'm going to do whatever it takes to keep it alive." She pushed back a limp hair. "Whatever it takes."

Festus leaned in. "Are you sure?"

Astrid massaged her forehead. "Times like this, I wish I had a god on my side." She looked up at Festus with wide, hopeful eyes. "Any chance you can scry what will happen?"

Possibly, he could. Scrying wasn't the Master's specialty – or at least, he'd never let on that it was – but some of our tutors were called into help the Emperor's special forces. Of course, their prophecies were often unclear, and the biggest danger was that the scryer himself wasn't telling the full truth.

Was Festus holding something back?

Festus let out a nervous laugh. "Come on, Astrid. You know that if it don't blow up or catch fire, I don't set much store by it." He shifted. "How about if I make you some wards instead? Keep them imperial boys from getting in without our say-so."

Astrid clapped a hand on his shoulder. Festus blushed slightly. "Sounds like a plan," she said. "Festus…I now you haven't had the easiest time here, but I just wanted to say thanks. You've never let us down."

Festus's lower lip quivered, and he blinked. "I'll etch you the finest wards this side of Winterhold," he promised. "I'll blow 'em so far to Sovengarde that Short won't know what hit 'im."

Astrid chuckled. "I'm sure you will." Cracking her back, she righted the quill and inkpot, and disappeared.

The war…Ulrich Stormcloak…Fort Neugrad… my head spun. Let the war be their concern. I had more important things to think about. I slipped back into my room.

Wait. Something was missing.

I rushed back into the common room. "Have you seen my staff?" I blurted out.

With his own staff, Festus was inscribing a giant circle on the dirt floor. "That infernal thing?"

Heavens above, that circle was giant. Was he planning to take out an entire army?

Wait. My eyes narrowed. "How would you know about it?"

Squinting at a filamentary rune, he swirled on an unnecessary flourish. "You think a mage of my stature wouldn't notice an artifact of power lighting up our sanctuary like a beacon?"

How could he take it? Hadn't Babette told us about the Code of Brotherhood, that no brother or sister could lay hands on each other's property? Stupid, I was so stupid to leave it unattended. "Give it back."

He shrugged. "Don't have it."

I stepped onto his rune. Dirt crunched. His swirling robes, his oaken staff…for some reason, my hair stood on end. Had I developed some bizarre phobia of mages? I forced my voice to sound steady. "I said, give it back."

Festus tapped a rune. Energy leapt across it, and into me. White flashes arced across the walls. I flinched. Sweat was pooling under my robes. I felt like I was going to collapse. "I need it."

Festus ran his scarred hand over his bald head. "You mean you really lost it?"

I nodded.

"The Eight take you …." He paced across the room. "What do you expect me to do, conjure it up? Cook up a little spell for young ladies who can't look after their priceless relics from the gods?"

Why did he care about it so much? "I just had it." My voice caught anyway. "It can't have gone far."

Could it? Daedric staffs didn't just get up and walk away, did they? Was this some new trick of Sheogorath's?

Festus studied me again. "No. It couldn't." Closing his eyes, he withdrew into himself, and turned all four directions, then opened his eyes and scoured the room like a cat on the lookout for prey. "Can't be." He made another round and then, brow furrowed, beckoned me over to the practice room.

Inside, Nazir was leaping and grunting, his scimitar flashing at imaginary foes. A whole new dread descended on me.

Festus leaned towards me conspiratorially. I cringed, but held my ground. "Best hope that thing's not in cursed hands," he whispered, loudly. "Could turn the entire South Reach into rabbits."

Nazir sparred harder.

Did Festus really think…?

"Pity the poor soul who takes that." Festus clucked his tongue like an old lady. "He'll have sold his soul to the mad lord."

"I didn't – " I insisted. Festus held up a hand.

Nazir's well-built arms were trembling.

With his staff, Festus rapped Nazir's shoulder. Nazir recoiled. "Awfully quiet, skeever."

Nazir wheeled around, his fists clenching at his scimitar.

Festus came chest-to-chest with him. For a mage, Festus had bulk. "You been sticking your paws where they don't belong."

Nazir crossed his arms. "It's for her own good. She's possessed."

"Possessed?" Festus sounded as if he were inquiring about the weather.

"Aye." Nazir glanced around, as if something might leap out. "Demons."

"Demons?" Festus's jaw dropped slightly. He glanced at me. "You should be proud of your sister. A dremora – that's no small feat."

"I'm not possessed." My voice was tiny.

"She is, and she doesn't know it." Nazir brought his hands to his face as if trying to block out some long-lost memory. "It…it…."

Festus squinted at me. "It what?"

Nazir stared at his boots. "It had its claws on her."

I wished I could melt into the floor.

Festus studied me. I flushed. "Oh really?" He rubbed his ear. "Pray tell, what was she making it do?"

"Nothing." With his scimitar, Nazir proceeded to gut the practice dummy.

"Don't sound like nothing."

"I told ye, she's possessed." Nazir swung at it with renewed vengeance, and missed.

Festus snorted. "You believe that, Redguard, you believe anything."

Nazir's expression couldn't have looked any sourer if he'd drunk a whole jug of vinegar. "Yer lying, sorcerer."

Festus rapped his staff. "Let me teach you a lesson, milk-drinker. Our art is about control. The moment you let go – just for an itsy bitsy little second – your nice little demon takes those nice little claws and drags you back to its lair." He raked his hands through the air. Like claws.

Nazir blanched. His chin was trembling. "It…it…."

 _Never summon a creature you can't control. It could drag you all the way back to Oblivion._

"Demon got your tongue?" Festus asked brightly. He clasped Nazir's face. Nazir swatted at him. "Let's play a game. Were its claws here?"

Plum crept across Nazir's earthy brown cheeks. Frantically, I gestured at him to be quiet.

Festus's fingers danced lightly down to Nazir's chest. "Or maybe…here?"

Nazir shoved Festus back. "Mara's arse, sorcerer!"

Laughter bubbled up in Festus, and boiled over into guffaws. I ran into my room and buried my face into my pillow.

"Get yer depraved, sorcerous hands off me!" Nazir's shouts could have woken the dead, even the Mother. Festus was still laughing. A metal pot crashed. "Ye have no respect for this family!"

"Ain't you the one to talk, spending all night with you-know-who with Anjborn outta the way."

"We were _talking_ – about that hell ye and yer madman friend are wreaking on this land!"

Wait – they weren't arguing about me. I lifted up my head.

There was a brief silence. "Cicero's not my friend," Festus said. "I just know what way the wind blows." Festus's voice lost its usual acerbic tone. "You've already lost. This 'glory or death' Astrid keeps rattling on about is only going to end one way. She's a fool if she thinks otherwise."

"Ye say that again, I'll send ye to Sithis."

Festus chuckled. "For all your high and mighty talk of _demons_ , you've sold your soul to a bigger demon than them all. And she sits in that corpse-room right over there, with good old Cicero." There was a pause. "I hear they stone followers of the dark gods in the Alik'r?"

Footsteps rushed from the room.

How could they do this to me? I'd never be able to face them again.

The footsteps came back. Something whistled through the air.

"You fool!" Festus's yells dimly pierced my mind. "Do you know what that is?"

Wood crashed against metal, and flames whooshed past my door. A thousand whispering voices screamed. I ran back into the common room. Flames were everywhere, and a wooden haft gleamed from the hearth. I dived in. Smoke filled my lungs. Far away, arcane words slithered around me, and a cool bubble enveloped me. My hands wrapped around a familiar wooden shaft, and my shoulder slumped to the ground. Rain was falling, and someone was pulling me by my feet. The fire receded.

An icy haze filled the room. Festus's staff was glowing blue, and Nazir was upending a clay water jug. A wooden chair was smoking.

The cool gravel soothed my back. I clutched the staff to my chest. It was pristine, unharmed. It sung to me, clearer than ever. Tears came to my eyes. Coughing, I inhaled its fiery scent, imagining the dremora.

Leather boots slammed by. Astrid. "What's going on here?"

"That fool" – Festus shook his staff at Nazir – "threw an artifact of power into the hearth, that's what's going on!" He grabbed Nazir's collar. "You nag on and on about our evil magicks, and the one time you stick your nose in – "

"Please." Babette's melodious voice wafted towards me like a spring breeze. "We have enough problems. We can't fight among ourselves." She stepped towards Nazir. "What you did was wrong. The property of a sister or brother is sacrosanct."

"All this is wrong." Nazir dug his boot into the gravel. "Stirring up this war, attacking both sides, cow-towing to that wrinkled-up corpse…."

Dust trickled down from the ceiling.

Astrid strode towards him. "You answer to me."

Nazir's face reddened. Sweat dripped down his forehead.

Astrid's eyes flickered around. "Anyone have a problem with that?"

Staring at a rock, Nazir shuffled his feet. "What we're doing…it's not honourable."

"There is no honour in our work." Astrid's mouth was in a tight line. "If you wanted honour, you should have stayed in that gods-forsaken desert."

Nazir turned so red I thought he was going to explode.

The ceiling was spinning again. My hands were shaking. Gods, no. I wasn't going to end up like the Master.

Sometimes, the Master's hands would tremble, and he'd drop the jar or scroll he was holding and fall, his arms legs flailing, shouting in a tongue I could barely recognize. I would hurry to sweep up the glass, wring out a cool cloth over him. "Apologies," he'd say, after it was over, as he wiped away the spittle. "Don't know what came over me."

Cool, porcelain hands cupped my face, and a vial came to my lips. "Drink this." Babette's voice was muffled, as if through a woollen scarf. A thick liquid slid down my throat. Extract of mountain flower, and something else. The haze cleared.

Nazir was seething. Astrid was tearing at a charred fur rug.

Festus plucked the staff from my grip. "I'll hold on to this for now."

I thrashed weakly. "You aren't going to take it."

"Oh, no." He grimaced. "Just borrowing it." Tapping it, he put his ear to it. "Swear by the mad lord." He chuckled. "The wards I'll make with this!"

Why did I feel so weak? "If you break your word," I threatened, "I'll invoke the great archlord Mehr-"

Where did this keep coming from? I clamped my mouth shut. I couldn't even fathom what the Master would do if he heard me.

Why had the Master adopted me, anyway? He was hardly the fatherly type, but he had come forward as my guardian while my classmates were still etching misspelled words onto their wax tablets. Until I graduated, I saw little of him – only once a year, when he asked the headmaster how I was doing. Of course, the reports were glowing. Why risk getting me dumped back on them, once they'd found a way to get rid of me?

Festus, however, was clearly not the Master. His eyes flickered greedily. "Trafficking in dark magicks today, ain't we?"

"Coming from ye, sorcerer?" shot back Nazir.

Festus brushed the wrinkles from his robes. "Do let me know if you come across any more…baubles." He licked his lips. "A relic from the right realm could be very destructive. In the right hands. I'd take it off you, for a price." He ran his gnarled hand along his bald head. "Any price."

I'd have to hide the _Mysterium Xarxes_ better.

Astrid put her hand to her forehead. "We've a war going on, and you're acting like children?" She rapped the table. Ash flew up. "It's glory or death."

Nazir and Festus glanced at each other.

Astrid turned to Babette. "She well enough to work?"

My hands were red and my body was still bruised, but I was otherwise unharmed. Probably had Festus to thank for that.

"Healing's best not rushed," Babette said gently.

Pursing her lips, Astrid stared at the wall, and then walked off.

Was she still mad about Solitude?

Brushing aside the dirt, Nazir sat beside me. With a thick, calloused finger, he traced cuneiform letters onto the ground, and put his head in his hands.

He looked worse off than me.

"I'm sorry." His shoulders sagged.

The important thing was…my staff was safe. "Just…don't do that again."

He bit his lip. "It's my job to protect you." He drew on the ground some more – flatlands; some mountains; a steep, narrow valley. I had no idea he could draw so well. " _Ansei_ , don't you want more than this in life?"

My head was spinning, my body was aching, the dremora's scent still lingered in my hair, and I was ready to burst into a thousand dances. "What?"

He took out his scimitar and turned it over in his hands, regarded it with a mixture of love and hate. "I've been thinking…what will people say about me when I die? _He was a good killer_?"

"You're no killer." The words just slipped out.

He snorted. "Yer the first to say that."

"You're not." I struggled to focus. "If you were…you wouldn't be against the Mother."

His eyes flickered to my hands – red and puckered – and towards my neck, which was still covered in bruises from the night before. At least my robe covered the rest. "Yer no killer either, _ansei_."

 _I lifted the mace and smashed it through the priest's head. As it yielded, like a rotten pumpkin, thrills coursed through my veins. The priest's body slackened, but, for a moment, his eyes locked on mine, and his last thoughts barrelled into my mind. "If this inflames your heart, then know you need to find the shrine of Boethiah."_

I looked away. "I'm not so sure."

" _Dongo_." His warm, brown eyes were pleading. "I know how it is. I tasted my first blood before I was half grown. But I'm telling ye – there's more to life. Yer still new. Ye can still turn back." He ran his hands through his hair – rich and black, just like the dremora. "Yer a woman. Yer job is to bring life into this world, not take it away."

I could bring life into this world. Atronachs, ice wolves, the dremora….

"Promise me." He fixed his gaze on me. "Promise me that when the war calms down, ye'll leave, get a home, a husband, a family. Make yerself into something yer kinsfolk will be proud of."

"What?" How exactly was I supposed to get set up with a husband? "With who…Festus?" For some reason, the joke fell flat.

He leaned forward. "I know folk back home. I can find ye a good man."

This was the most preposterous thing I'd ever heard. "Nazir…you can't."

He narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"Because…" I had never mentioned the Master to him.

"Because why?"

"Because." I groped for the right words. "I'm already bound." Gods, it was like talking to a daedra.

He grimaced. "That _thing_?"

"No…." Actually, yes. By the Eight, I was bound. I could barely move, and all I wanted to do was run back to the forest. "In Cyrodiil." _And Oblivion._

He smirked. "I told Astrid as much." He leaned forward. " _Ansei_ , ye can't get out of it forever. When are ye going home?"

"Never?"

He traced his fingers in the dirt. "However bad it is, it can't be worse than this."

"Yes, it can."

" _Ansei_ ," he said, "this isn't the life for ye. Ye've done yer jobs, yer part of the family…but ye don't belong here."

The words hit me like a slap.

"Yer people – yer tribesmen, yer kin – they know what's best for ye."

"I'm not so sure of that either."

"It's a harsh world out there." He didn't need to say that twice. "No matter how bad they are, no one else will look after ye. And ye have a responsibility to them, for all they've done for ye."

What did he know about my life? "Ye – you – just said we were family."

"We are. But…." His dark eyes wandered towards Astrid's room. "Just think on it, will ye?"

"All right."

Hefting his scimitar, he rose.

The Brotherhood was all I had. By the Eight – I'd killed for them. I couldn't just go back to the Master and go back to studying grammars and mixing potions as if nothing had happened.

Where else could I go?

 _Oblivion?_

* * *

Author notes:

RegrettablePun and Guest: Thanks for taking the time to review, and the encouragement!

I wanted to share a couple books that I've found helpful in writing this. One is called _Euphonics for Writers_ which is about how to use sound to convey different moods. For the past few chapters, I've been going over the chapters before posting and trying to employ some of the techniques.

The other is _The Emotion Thesaurus: A Writer's Guide to Character Expression_ which has suggestions for "show not tell". Both were fairly cheap purchases on Kindle.

Just in case that is helpful to anyone!


	19. Choices

Dear Alzena,

I know you're reading this. You always read _everything_. Why do you think I always hid my diaries from you?

Perchance you've cast a spell upon a strapping young lad, and you've set up house. I rather fancy that notion, far-fetched as it may be. Mara forfend, you could even be with child.

Whatever you are doing…it won't last. Our overseers take my apprentices quite seriously – one misstep, and you'll be begging the divines to deliver you to Sovngarde. I'm sorry. Maybe I should have told you before, but it wouldn't have mattered. You were chosen.

Put yourself in my place for a moment. What do you think will happen if you don't complete your training? I'll have to start over. Again. With yet another impressionable child from the Academy. You wouldn't want to be responsible for doing this to someone else, would you? Not yet, anyway. Not while you don't have to.

I know the past few years with me haven't been easy – I'm not _that_ daft. Still, think on it. What would have happened to you without me? You'd have become a porter's wife, or maybe a chamber maid. Your talents would have been wasted. At least, thanks to my influence, the Castle kept you in school. You may not see it now, but when you come home, you'll have everything you need to become the most powerful mage in Cyrodiil. You could even have the Emperor's ear. Is that really such an ill fate?

Awaiting a reply,

Joneleth

* * *

A week had crawled by since the accident, and Babette and I were sitting in the common room together. True, it was mossy and dank, but the fire was flickering – from a _safe_ distance; apples and cabbage were simmering into something delicious in the stewpot; and Babette was plying me with blue mountain flower tea. I felt…at home. At peace. Cared for. Maybe even loved. Feelings I had only heard about before.

Nazir was insane to think that I'd give this up. He didn't know anything about the Master, or what he was like. _Yer kin know what's best for ye_ , indeed. The Master had all but threatened to send a battalion after me – as if there wasn't a war going on. Had all those potions and summonings finally eaten away at the last of his sanity?

Besides…so the Emperor didn't let apprentices quit. So what? No one quit the family, either. I was a lot better off angering the Emperor – who didn't even like me anyway – than the Mother. I had a much better chance of surviving, right here.

Babette was regarding me from behind her usual doll-like mask. She could have been thinking anything, but what did it matter? I leaned back in my chair, breathing in the warmth of the tea, my thoughts drifting back to the dremora. With nothing else to do, I'd been able to slip out to the forest almost every night.

 _I summoned you. I control you now_ , I had told him, staff in hand, a smile playing on my lips.

His glowing orange flames arced against the dark night sky. _I will tear your heart out first_.

My heart sped up, as my gaze lingered on his chiselled, obsidian arms. I stepped towards him. _Admit I control you_.

 _I…._ His exquisite, orange topaz eyes locked on mine, and his claws found their way into my hair. _I submit_ , he whispered, his warm breath tickling my ear.

Shivers went down my body, and the forest melted away as I disappeared into his fiery embrace. _I submit too_ , I thought. Thinking without thinking. He growled, deep, low growls, and the staff clattered away.

"Feeling better?" Babette's pleasant voice interrupted my reverie.

I blinked. "Hmm?"

Babette looked at me with an air of excessive patience. "Are you feeling well enough to work?"

I glanced down at my hands. They were still sore, but they'd feel better as soon as they were wrapped around my dagger. A tinge of anticipation went through my spine. I'd been out of the field too long. "Sure."

"That's what we like to hear." Babette painted a smile on her lips, but it didn't reach her eyes. Why was everyone so morose? The candelabra was twinkling merrily, and a rare shaft of sunlight had even poked its head into our cavern-home. Festus had clearly poured his heart and soul into the runes which adorned the walls, and – thanks to _my_ staff – they sparkled and glowed. At Cicero's rather shrill and vociferous insistence, he'd even warded the Mother's coffin. Truth be told, they were beautiful. Incredibly dangerous, but beautiful.

Rubbing her head, Babette rifled through her herb satchel, scooped out a smidgen of sickly purple sap, and stirred it into her tea. My heart skipped a beat. Back at the Academy, I'd only handled that with tongs. Drink enough, and it would kill you. But Babette was an accomplished herbalist. Maybe she just wanted to soothe a case of nerves. Or maybe our tutors had just been overprotective.

She took a delicate sip from her cup, then fingered the trim on my new robes. "Excellent taste," she murmured.

"Hmm?" I followed her gaze to my sleeve. It was already getting frayed, and the velvet was so itchy. Our Academy robes had been much better made – so much for the Radiant Raiment. "Thanks."

She sipped at her mild poison brew, as _clink_ s and _bump_ s drifted out from Festus's workshop. Whatever he was up to, I didn't want to know. He still made my skin crawl. I couldn't say why…but whenever I saw him, a twinge of fear went through me…as if I were back at Winterhold, alone in that cold, stone room with Gestor.

Great – so now I'd developed mage-phobia. I'd have to get over that. Whatever had happened at Winterhold – and my memory was still hazy – it was long past. This was my home now – no matter what Nazir and the Master said.

 _Zzzp_. _Bump_. _Clink_. Muttered curses emanated from Festus's room. By the Eight, was he trying to zap himself out of Tamriel?

At long last, Babette set down her teacup. "Nazir is…worried about you." She brushed her hand along her auburn hair. "He asked me to have a word with you."

I gulped. What had Nazir said? Did the whole family know by now? Why didn't they just write it on waybills and tack them on trees all the way to Solitude?

Avoiding her gaze, I muttered, "Nazir shouldn't have taken my staff." Maybe that would keep her from mentioning the dremora.

"No, he shouldn't have," Babette agreed. "And not just because of the Code."

"The Code?" I asked.

"Of Brotherhood. And Sisterhood," she added with a wink.

Right. _Never steal from yer Dark Brother. Ye do so, ye invoke the Wrath of Sithis. Never kill yer Dark Brother. Ye do so, ye invoke the Wrath of Sithis. Never disobey orders. Ye do so, ye invoke the Wrath of Sithis_. Nazir had drilled that into my head. Just like he'd taught me everything about the family. My stomach clenched. I hadn't seen him since the accident. Where was he? Was he avoiding Astrid, or me?

"Nazir was being stupid." Babette shook her head, her ponytail swaying in the firelight. " _Men_. First they act, then they think. He should have known better than to try to possess an artefact of power. His allergy to magic doesn't render him naïve." With her ornate, delicate spoon, Babette scooped more poison sap onto her saucer and played around with it.

I blinked. Babette was so discreet, it was easy to forget she was a mage. For all I knew, she was more powerful than Festus. Judging by the _clink_ s and _bump_ s still coming from his workshop, I would have wagered on it.

Babette drew in a deep breath. "But…it's not just that. He said…in so many words…that you've found…a companion."

The word _dremora_ hung over us, like a chaurus clinging to the roof of one of Skyrim's vermin-infested caves. But she didn't say it. Had Nazir told her? Hard to say – her face was still in that impenetrable, doll-like mask.

"And…." Babette's lip twitched, just for a second. "He swears you're being controlled by – as he calls it – _evil magicks_."

 _Not again._ "I'm not possessed." Gods, how many times would I have to say this?

Or…was I?

If this was possession, I didn't want it to end.

Babette eyed me clinically. "Truthfully, I wouldn't know if you are or not. I don't wish you to misapprehend me, but you've a dark aura about you."

 _Me_? I glanced around. The rusty suit of armour was still proudly displayed by the fire; someone had draped a hooded mask over it. Very funny. Dangling from the stone walls were banners so tattered they could have been left over from the Second Era; each was emblazoned with a faded black hand. And Babette thought _I_ had a dark aura? I almost laughed.

"Even if you were possessed," she continued, thoughtfully, "I don't think I could tell. Although…that aura's so thick, I doubt any evil spirits could find their way in."

I must have spent too much time with the Master. That was it. If anything described him, it was _dark aura_. The castle ghosts probably fled from him.

"In any case," Babette said, "love is its own insanity. With or without possession. Nazir's been around long enough to know that. And there's no cure."

Love. Was I in love with the dremora? How was I supposed to know?

I could always ask a priestess of Mara. Imagining _that_ conversation, I stifled a laugh.

Babette cupped her chin in her hands. "I envy you. To be young again. Everything fresh, everything new." She shrugged. "Maybe Nazir's just jealous."

I grimaced. "Nazir should stay out of it."

She smiled. "Agreed."

I looked up. "Agreed?"

Babette leaned back in the ramshackle wooden chair. "Astrid's practical. She knows she can't keep us locked up in here without companionship. Preferably outside the family. Less problems." She chuckled. "There are exceptions, of course."

Like Anjborn. I cringed, and then immediately regretted it. He'd limped home in one piece, but his lush white hair had been singed off, and the last time he'd called me _tidbit_ , the malice had fallen from his voice.

Wait…did that mean that Nazir, and Babette, and – gods, no – _Festus_ had companions too? Who? Where?

I buried that thought as deep as I could.

"You need an outlet for your work." The smile had dropped from her face – but so had the mask. She looked aged. Very aged. "We all do. This isn't the Blue Palace. Recruits break." Her features drew in, and she nodded towards Cicero's room – the one he shared with the Mother. "You don't want to end up like that."

My skin crawled, as if an ant were making its stealthy way up my bare back. I nodded.

"You need something to keep you sane," said Babette. "If you've found that, I'm glad."

That wasn't what I'd expected to hear. "Thanks."

Absently, Babette brushed some stray dirt off the table. Ever since the blast, a steady stream of dirt and pebbles had been trickling down from the mossy stone roof. Hopefully, the whole thing wasn't going to come down on us.

"Nazir's just…sensitive," she said. That was an understatement. "Did he ever tell you what happened to his sister?"

He had a sister? "No."

"It's not my place to say, but…." Babette rubbed her brow. "When he was young, his tribe was attacked. Mages. The way he tells it, some of them wielded the power of the gods." She sighed. "They were probably just mages, but, even then, there are branches of the arcane arts they don't teach you at Winterhold." She glanced towards Festus's workshop, which had gone strangely silent. "Things that would make your blood run cold."

Clearly, she'd never met the Master.

"He had a younger sister." Her voice was quiet. "She was taken. The others, killed or scattered." She swallowed. "That day was his first kill."

Babette's eyes glistened in the candlelight. I shifted uncomfortably and tried to look somber. At least Nazir had actually known his family. He hadn't just been dropped off at the castle for some mage to pick him up and lock him away. _Ward of Joneleth_ , the Emperor had reminded me. As if anyone had ever let me forget.

Still…I remembered how Nazir's eyes had glossed over as he spoke warm, smooth, inscrutable words in the tongue of the Alik'r. He was an outsider here, and _that_ , I understood. Maybe I could feel sad about that. I looked down too. "I'm sorry."

"I keep telling him to let it go – or else go back and find them – but he won't." Babette sighed again. "That's one thing I've learned – people never change. They can, of course, but they don't, until it's too late. Maybe he will, though. Sometimes fate doesn't let you stay your course." She pushed aside her cup.

"I have to hand it to you, though," she continued. You've put the fear of the gods into him. All these years he's spent here with me, I've never been able to do that."

Were we talking about the same Nazir? "Really?"

Babette nodded. "Heard him telling Astrid the Mother was out to get us, and we had to do something about it."

Maybe the dremora had made even more of an impression than I'd thought.

Suddenly, my brow furrowed. "I thought Astrid was mad at Naizr."

"Astrid is…under a lot of pressure." Babette's face went pleasantly blank, and her eyes flickered towards the gargantuan runes on the wall. "She can't afford to be angry, and she knows it."

So why wasn't Astrid speaking to me? I thought back to Solitude – the flames melting Vittoria's beaded dress, her husband screaming, and my stomach clenched again. I'd botched up the job. I should have killed him too. I'd failed Astrid, and I couldn't fix it. I didn't deserve to be a member of the family. I should be grateful that she hadn't kicked me out.

I'd never make that mistake again.

Babette's voice brought me back to our stone cavern. "But he's right. The dark gods are dangerous. Astrid didn't know what she was getting into when Cicero showed up at the door."

I frowned. "You mean Cicero hasn't always been here?" I'd assumed he'd always been there, shoved into a back room like an unwanted piece of furniture.

Babette shook her head. "Showed up right before you. Claimed authority on the basis of centuries of dead tradition." She laughed mirthlessly. "You should have heard him and Astrid bicker – all the while with his Mother's corpse stinking up our threshold. I told Astrid to lock him out – if there's one thing I've learned about the dark gods, it's that if you leave them alone, they leave you alone."

They hadn't left _me_ alone. "Are you sure?"

Babette fiddled with her nails and then, as if deciding something, leaned forward. "I don't usually talk about this." She bit at her thumbnail. "Many…painful memories…although, now, I can look on it – almost – as if it were someone else. But…when I was young…I was…chosen…to serve one of the dark masters."

I froze.

"Not like the Nine that these Nords worship." Pain creased her face, but her eyes blazed with a strange fire – like the dremora's. "He was close to us." She took a deep breath, as if steadying herself. "Intimate. He spoke to us. Often. He could touch our souls. He gave us the strength, and the power, and the will – not just the will, but the _desire_ – to kill."

Beneath the table, I pressed my legs together to keep them from shaking.

Babette ran her hand along the table. Splinters caught in it. She didn't seem to notice. "We hungered for blood. The more we killed, the more we hungered, and the more he goaded us on."

 _I smashed Molag's mace into the priest's head._

I opened my mouth, unsure if I could speak. "What happened?"

"I realized who he was." Babette wiped a trace of sweat from her forehead. "I realized he didn't care about us. We had no control. We were just pawns, to be pushed around as he pleased."

Where had I heard that before? Gestor? No. The Master? No…although it sounded like something he'd say.

Nelacar – that was it – way back in Winterhold. About Azura. But Azura wasn't like that at all. Her shining light still adorned my neck to prove it.

"He knew, of course, the moment I decided." Babette's voice was low. "I was afraid. He knew that too. What would he do – strike me down? But he just said, _there are worse masters to serve than me_." She glanced towards the Mother. "I didn't believe it then."

My head was throbbing again. I didn't even know what masters _I_ served anymore. Astrid – the one who wasn't speaking to me?

The silence pressed in on me. "So you left?"

Babette's knuckles were white against the table. "You don't break a pact with a god."

I frowned. "But…you said?"

"I learned to control myself." A hint of pride crept into Babette's voice, but tempered with fear. "I learned to make it cold. Feelingless. Do it as swiftly and painlessly as possible. Death can be a healer, I believe. Mostly, I can control myself. I don't feel anything, except for when…." She glanced at her broken nail. "I am still learning."

My mouth must have been hanging open. This was a side of Babette I had never imagined. How much more about the family didn't I know?

Babette looked up. "If you get to be our age – I mean" – she coughed awkwardly – " _when_ you get to be our age, you'll understand what it's like to see a young person with their whole life ahead of them." Unbidden, Vittoria and her groom came to mind. I pushed them aside. "You'll want them to have a better life, avoid your suffering. Make the right choices, the choices you never had."

I hadn't noticed that Astrid had given me a choice, the night she'd locked me up in that lodge. Or the Master, ever.

"Nazir wants that for you. I want that for you." Babette shifted uncomfortably. "Even Astrid." When Astrid wasn't busy avoiding me, anyway. "I still believe you can come out ahead. I have faith in you. The Mother's _one_ god, not _the_ god. You can cheat fate. Watch your back. Take no chances. Plan, and plan again. Make sure you have an escape route. In our job, you don't get a second chance."

This was getting insulting. I wasn't a new recruit anymore. I'd already proven myself. She didn't need to talk down to me like this.

 _Clang_. A dull thud resonated from the suit of armour in the corner. I squinted at it. There was nothing there. Could it have been a mouse? No, wait. Something _was_ shimmering in the air – faintly – about a foot off the ground.

Frowning, Babette grabbed a kitchen knife from the table and crept forward. Then, casting aside the knife, she lifted her knee and kicked at the patch of light with the sole of her boot –

– and Festus materialized and crashed down onto the stone floor. "Argh!" he shrieked. He hopped up and down, rubbing his foot. "Horker bitch!"

Babette smiled pleasantly, and this time it _did_ reach her eyes.

He'd been _listening_? How long had he been there? Had he heard us talking about the dremora? This was too much. He'd already humiliated me in front of Nazr, and now he was _spying_ on me?

I was going to wring his neck – Code of Brotherhood be damned.

Babette poured him a cup of mountain flower tea and handed it to him. "Here. Take this. You'll feel better." Her lips were still twitching.

Glowering, Festus grabbed the cup and downed the tea in one gulp, steaming and all.

"Pray tell," Babette gushed, "what were you working on? Invisibility?"

"Hrmph." Festus smoothed down his frayed linen robes. "Invisibility's for rooks. Don't think that low of me, do you?" He gave Babette a wide-eyed look, like a lost puppy.

I marched up to him. "Then what _were_ you doing?"

Festus scowled. "Teleporting." Babette raised an eyebrow at him, and he shuffled his feet. "Man can never be too prepared."

Right. And he just _happened_ to teleport in when me and Babette were talking. "You weren't teleporting," I shot back. "You were spying." That had to be against the Code, didn't it? _Thou shalt not spy. To do so will invoke the Wrath of Sithis._

"Ain't my fault if you're blind as a moth priest." He hacked an ebullient cough and spat onto the floor.

I winced.

Stretching, Festus settled himself into a chair. "Hear Nazir's trying to marry you off. Denizens of the deep not good enough for you? Or were you planning to keep it on the side? See how it likes that, eh?"

Why did Nazir have to keep telling everyone about _my_ business? I was going to have a talk with him, the moment he set foot in the door.

"It's a _he_ ," I informed Festus. "Not an _it_."

"Oh, and how would you know?" He licked his chapped lips. "No, don't sully my ears."

" _Festus_ ," Babette warned.

I willed myself to keep from flushing. I wasn't going to be intimidated by some mage, no matter how paranoid I'd gotten. Not after all those years under the Master.

Festus leaned forward. "Tell me, does _he_ even have a name?"

I hesitated. "He's working for one."

"I see." Festus snickered. "And how's he going about that?"

"He's…." I couldn't say it. _Serving the great archlord Mehrunes Dagon_. "Working hard," I emended. But at what? What did you do if you were a dremora, to gain the archlord's favour?

Festus raised his meagre crop of eyebrow hairs.

I put my hands on my hips. "You want to find out so bad," I told him, "you summon him yourself."

"Hrmph." Festus stalked over to the fire. "Ain't that stupid." He stared into the simmering stew of apples and cabbages. It bubbled. "Them summonings control your mind."

"I control _it_ ," I reminded him. My mind flashed back to the night before, in the forst, as the dremora was lying next to me. Idly, I'd wondered what it would feel like if his claws were to touch me _just there_. Half-asleep, I'd reached for the staff and called forth all my will to invoke my summoner's privilege, taking control over him and directing his claws along my bare skin. He hadn't complained.

Festus grunted. "Thought it was a _he_."

Babette heaved a pointed sigh.

"Look at you, all blushing like a pansy whenever you talk about _him_." Festus snorted. "Bet if he asked you to make like an ash scamp and jump into Oblivion, you'd do it."

I opened my mouth to retort, but nothing came out. The dremora and I _had_ talked about that, again. And again. Going to Oblivion…it went against everything the Master had ever taught me. But, then again, the Master himself – apparently – had crossed over the divide.

Besides, if anything ever did go wrong – say, if the Emperor really did send someone after me – it wasn't a bad idea to be able to drop out of Tamriel. Especially with the dremora waiting for me on the other side.

Everything I'd been told about daedra had been wrong. Everything I'd been told about _dremora_ had been wrong. Who was to say that everything I'd been told about Oblivion wasn't wrong too?

Festus stalked over to the wall and traced his finger along the runes. "Anyway, didn't come here to talk about your pet." The runes fizzled a dull burgundy at his touch. "You don't know what you have," he said sullenly.

I knew _exactly_ what I had with the dremora…but, somehow, I didn't think that was what Festus meant. "What do you mean?"

Festus pressed his lips flat. "I'm thrice your age, I know secrets that would make them College boys wet their pants…and they talk to _you_."

"Who?" I asked.

Festus glanced at the door, then lowered his voice. "The dark masters."

 _Oh_. So this really wasn't about the dremora. _The dark masters_. That was what Babette had called them. The daedra. So _that_ was what he'd been listening to. "I…what do you want to talk to them for?"

Babette stilled, like a _tsaesci_ serpent about to strike. "Festus," she said, in a very low voice. "We've talked about this before."

Festus scowled. "You and me have," he said. "Me and the recruit haven't."

That was probably because I took pains not to walk by his workroom. He reminded me too much of…of Gestor?

The fire flickered ominously.

"They fill your head with lies up there in Winterhold," Festus grumbled. Strictly speaking, that wasn't true. My head had been filled with lies at the Academy, not the College. "The greatest mages of all time had their power from the dark masters. Wouldn't be surprised if even that archmage does."

I'd never thought about it. The mages at Winterhold hadn't had quite the same allergy to daedra that my tutors had. But they also raised up dead cats in the library. And I hadn't actually encountered any mages who confessed to any sort of alliance with them. Yet. "How do you know?"

"How do I _know_?" He sneered. "Unlike you, I didn't train in that ivory tower."

"I trained at the Academy," I reminded him.

If his eyebrows rose any higher, they'd be in Sovngarde. "Oh, the _Academy_. Even better. You're one of those, protected beyond belief."

Babette put her forehead in her hands.

"Academy brat," he grumbled. "College to boot. Don't tell me, it wasn't exciting enough, and you ran off for fun."

I recoiled, as if he had hit me. "You don't know anything about my life."

"Look at you." He snorted. "Think I can't spot blue blood? Eatin' so dainty, always knowin' where the next meal's comin' from. When I was your age, I was roastin' skeevers over the fire. And if that ain't enough, Astrid gives you the lion's share of our jobs and sends you off when we're goin' to be – "

He loomed over me, in his robes, his shadow cast long against the wall. My mind flashed back again to Gestor. Panic flowed through me. That day in Winterhold when – when what happened? All I could remember was Gestor picking up his staff, uttering a word of command, and…?

Suddenly, it hit me, like it had never hit me before. I hadn't wanted to think about it. I couldn't even think about it, really.

Gestor had controlled me, like a summoning.

That meant that _I_ could do that to someone, too.

Especially since I had Sheogorath's staff.

I could do anything I wanted to Festus – make _him_ do anything I wanted. No wonder he was jealous. Of course, I wasn't _going_ to control him…not now, anyway…but a newfound confidence flowed through me, and my fear evaporated like a tincture boiling off from an alembic.

 _Academy brat_ , I thought, and stifled a laugh. Taking favours from Sheogorath certainly hadn't been something our tutors had taught us. They would have been horrified. At that thought, a laugh did slip out.

Festus stared at me in utter confusion.

I smiled benevolently.

Babette situated herself between us and patted my shoulder sympathetically. "Manners are a good thing. You should be proud of your upbringing. Your family did you well."

The Master wasn't family. I was his ward. And – apparently – a replaceable one, at that. You didn't replace family. It had never even occurred to me that the Master might have had apprentices before. What had happened to them? Had he sent them all off to get killed?

"And as for why you're here now" – she eyed Festus – "we don't ask. The past's the past, here. We're all family now." She turned to Festus. "Now, more than ever. These are difficult times."

Festus was still eyeing me suspiciously. "I had _no_ idea."

Babette stood beside him, and both of them stared down Astrid's monstrosity of a map, which was still splayed across the table. Someone had scrawled red and blue X's across it, and, south of Whiterun, a clump of huts had been scribbled out. Had the Mother pencilled them out of Tamriel?

Festus seemed to be mulling over something. _Had_ he been scrying? He looked as if _he_ was the one – not me – ready to plunge into Oblivion.

 _Something_ was going on. Everyone was acting weird – Astrid, Babette, Nazir, Anjborn. Everyone – except Festus. Sure, he was moodier than usual…but he was the only one who wasn't acting like he was walking on egg sacs around me.

Festus brushed his fingertip over a murky lake. "That's some memories."

I looked at Babette questioningly, and then back at him. "Of what?"

"What the hell," he muttered. "Since you're all getting' chatty here." He settled himself back into a wooden chair, which creaked under his weight. "Trained in a private coven," he said. "The kind the Emperor don't stand for." He grunted. "Empire shut us down."

The Empire had its faults…but they didn't go around rounding up rogue mages in backwater provinces unless they really, _really_ had a reason to do so.

I wasn't going to ask what Festus had been doing there.

He rubbed his neck. "Tragic," he said. "What happened to…." His voice broke off.

Babette sat down across from him. "You don't have to talk about it again," she said softly.

"Yeah I do." Festus shot me that pained look again. "Hidin' them Imperial crimes don't change 'em."

I thought back to the priest of Azura, hanging with nothing but a loincloth in the market square. What was so different between him and the Master? Why was it that the Castle would supply the Master with gold and potions and the divines knew what else to study forbidden lore, while, only a stone's throw away, the priest got hanged?

I'd read the Master's book – I knew some of what he'd done here – and, for all I knew, what he'd written in his diaries was much worse. And yet, there he was, an honoured – although unwilling – guest at the Castle.

And now _I'd_ made the pilgrimage to the shrine of Azura. I'd never thought of it as such, of course, but any of our tutors would have said that I had. The Empire wasn't going to welcome me back with open arms, no matter what the Master said. Not if they found out who I was, what I had done.

All the more reason to keep Oblivion an option.

Festus rubbed at his eyes with his fists. "Don't you girls clean the dust in this place?" he muttered, then scowled at me. "There was a girl. Looked a fair share like you. Gangly. Green eyes. Plain. Imperial-like – no offence intended."

Gangly? Plain? _Thanks_.

"In love with one of them adepts. Necromancer." He grunted. "Take it from me, you're better off with that beast of yours."

 _That_ was something I hadn't expected to hear.

Festus stared off into nothingness, at something I could neither see nor hear. "They cleaned out that cave of ours, cleansed it by fire. Beautiful. Deadly, but – divines – so beautiful. Mara help me, can't believe I'm sayin' that." He paused. "He raised up what was left of her – weren't much. What a stench." He let out a guffaw. "You shoulda' seen the worms."

That was it. I was _never_ touching necromancy. Ever.

"If I'd had a staff like yours," he continued, "them battlemages would've been no match for me. Or…if I'd had…what they call it? Molag's mace? Mehrunes' razor?" That was Dagon's dagger. "That kind of power can be transmuted. Could flatten out an army stretching from here to Markarth."

"Just what Skyrim needs these days," Babette said brightly.

Molag's mace was now _extremely_ well hidden away, and, thanks to the Master's book, I now knew exactly where Dagon's dagger was. Locked in the bottom of the Master's chest. I put on my best impression of Babette's expressionless mask.

Festus leaned towards me expectantly.

My resolve faltered. "If you feel so strongly about it," I suggested, hoping I wasn't putting ideas into his mind, "why don't you visit one of their shrines?"

Festus shifted in his chair. A few more pebbles trickled down from the ceiling. "What makes you think I haven't?"

 _Oh_. I stood there, dumbly. It had never occurred to me to ask why the daedra spoke to me. Maybe it was because of my apprenticeship. Because I already knew their tongue. Or maybe – I shuddered to think about it – because the Master knew a lot more about them than he had let on. Before he'd brought me into this farce.

Festus leaned closer to me, and, this time, he wasn't laughing. "There must be a secret to getting them to talk to you." He was fiddling with the edge of the map, not looking at me. "A summoning, maybe."

"I…it doesn't work like that. They talk to me when they want to, not when _I_ want to." As far as I knew. I'd never tried to invoke them. I didn't want to think about what it would mean if I invoked them, and they answered.

Festus was right though. I'd been smart enough not to get into a pact with the daedra – the Master had at least instilled that in me – but they had still given me gifts. Azura had given me her light. Sheogorath had given me the dremora. And Molag had given me – I didn't know what to call it, but, without it, I'd be dead.

Festus, however…Festus already loved to destroy. Add to that the love to kill, and he'd be a monster. I had enough trouble keeping myself from hiding in the trees and leaping out at passer-bys – and I didn't have fire and lightning at my fingertips.

Whatever I did, I wasn't going to introduce him to the daedra.

"It ain't fair to keep it to yourself." He sounded like a child. "We're all family."

I wracked my brain for a way out. "What about the Mother?" That seemed safe. We were already in the service of the Mother, anyway. "Babette thinks she's one of them."

He grunted. "Tell me something I don't know."

Was I the last to learn about things here?

"So?" I prompted. "Why don't you go and ask her?"

He snorted. "What, spend my life in that corpse-room, hashing it out with Cicero, fighting for the privilege to rub oil over the dear Mother's sagging, dried-up breasts?" He stroked the stubble on his chin. "Hmmmm."

I grimaced again.

"Fortunately for him," he smirked, "I don't go for corpses."

I glanced at Babette. She had mentioned companions. What _did_ he go for?

Best not ask.

"Plus," he said, "the Mother's only got one Listener, and it ain't me." He looked at me suspiciously. "Don't tell me that she _also_ talks to you – "

"No," I said hastily. Thank the divines for that.

Festus looked the teensiest bit relieved. "These are troubling times. All them Imperial bastards tromping all about. If I had the dark masters on my side, Astrid would never have to worry about the safety of this family again."

Festus was starting to sound like a Nord. Actually, I'd never asked him where he was from. He'd always seemed placeless. Like me.

"I don't think the 'dark masters' are going to help," I said, as tactfully as I could. Not when the Mother seemed hell-bent on sending the entire population to Sithis.

An uneasy silence fell.

Leaning back, Festus picked up a discarded stem from the table and chewed. Suddenly, he saw Babette's poison sap on the saucer. "Dagon's eyeballs, woman!" He rushed to a jug and swished out his mouth, then sat himself back down, as Babette stifled a laugh. Then he stretched languidly. "Take it you didn't tell 'er."

Babette shot him a _look_. "That's Astrid's job."

"Tell me what?" I interrupted.

Festus grunted. "Your job."

I perked up. "I have a job?"

Babette's face went pleasantly blank. "You _will_ have a job."

My heart sped up. _Finally_ , I was going to get back to work. "When?" I tried to keep the excitement out of my voice.

Babette wandered over to the fire and started tidying up the pots and pans. At length, she said, "When Nazir gets back."

So Nazir _wasn't_ avoiding me. A strange feeling of relief went through me. "When's he getting back?"

"When he's done with his job." With a rough cloth, she started polishing a pile of forks and knives.

"So the Empire's fattened the Gourmet up for the skewer, eh?" Festus chortled. "Nazir gonna truss him up and roast him for 'em, too?"

Babette kept polishing with a vengeance, her lips in a firm line.

The Gourmet? Had Astrid sent Nazir to…. "But...why?" What could the Gourmet have done to get a Brotherhood contract on him? Steal someone's pottage recipe?

It was just…wrong. I'd even spied the Gourmet's recipe book on Astrid's nightstand. You didn't go around killing people whose recipes you used.

Babette put down the cloth. "He's done more good for Skyrim than all the jarls combined." She rubbed her temples. "All I can say is, there's good cause. He has some admittance papers to the Castle. Astrid was going to send you, but you weren't well." Seizing the cloth, she attacked a stack of metal plates.

So the Gourmet just wandered around – during a _civil war_ – with classified papers on his person, waiting to get assassinated? Had the Mother driven all of Skyrim insane?

"What a sap," said Festus. "Should've known better than to get all cozy with the Castle at a time like this. Must've addled his brains out all with them minces and sweetmeats." He gave a mock sigh. "Off to the grew stewpot in the sky."

At the mention of the Castle, I looked down, remembering the Master's letter. As much as I hated to admit it…he had been, sort of, right. The Castle _had_ taken care of me, all those years. They'd fed us, and clothed us, and I _had_ been in school. I'd never thought about why they did that, while other orphans were running around begging and pickpocketing foreigners.

An uncomfortable feeling went through me. Did that mean I owed the Castle something in return?

Babette turned to me. "There is something you _can_ do." She started stacking cutlery. _Clink. Clink._ "Astrid says there's a young man in Windhelm, trying to call on the Mother. Apparently he's pulled off the Black Sacrament – after a fashion – and is making quite a ruckus. Rumours have been spreading all the way to Riften. Please, sort it out."

Nazir had told me about the Black Sacrament too – how, in the olden days, people used to set up summoning circles and evoke the Mother to call on our services. Nowadays, they usually just asked us.

"Ah, that Arentino kid," butted in Festus. "Cicero was blathering on about him. Something about besmirching the Mother's reputation. Good, at least you'll be shutting him up. Our resident fool, I mean." He squinted at the map and traced his finger over some arrows. "This really the time to be sending her to Windhelm? Look at all that castle fodder around. Something's a-stewin'." He laughed at his own joke.

"It's now or never," said Babette. "There won't be any time for niceties as soon as we begin the" – her eyes darted over to me – "the operation. Besides… she looks just like an Imperial. She's even got the accent. I doubt she'll have any trouble with them." She glanced at me askance. "Not in Windhelm, anyway," she said, in an undertone.

"Hrmph." Festus rubbed his hand over his bald head. "Never noticed that they cared. They certainly didn't ask for _our_ pedigrees when they raided our home. Don't matter where you're from, when them sellswords get their paws on a young lady, they're all brutes."

I bristled. Those _sellswords_ were the kids I'd grown up with. As much as they'd teased me, I couldn't imagine them holding a sword to me…or worse. But that was silly. The Master had made it clear that, should I tarry too long, they'd be coming for me too. The Empire and the Mother seemed to have one thing in common – they both seemed to drive people mad.

Babette turned to Festus. "Festus," she said firmly, "you can leave now."

"I _can_ ," he replied, leaning back and pouring himself another cup of tea. After giving it a good sniff, he set to work on it.

Babette sighed.

Wait. Festus had said this Arentino was a kid. "So you want me to…I mean, is this a job?" After all these months, I still wasn't sure what the polite word was for _kill._ I made a slashing motion at my throat.

Babette closed her eyes for a moment. There was that mask again. "Just deal with it," she said. "Make the right choices." She looked at me meaningfully. "And remember, you always have a choice. Even if no one says you do."

* * *

Author notes

Rejar - I appreciate your taking the time to review, and your encouragement! Yes, I had a hard time integrating character voice in the beginning, and it started to get easier later on. I also read some short books on writing fiction and tried some new things. Glad it had a noticeable effect!

Truthfully - and I know I've said this before - I think even an infinitesimal amount of NPC character development in the Elder Scrolls would really do wonders for the depth of the game...but hey, I'm not a developer. ;)

Regrettable - Thanks!

Knights - It shall become clear soon. (If not soon-soon, then soon enough...Some of you might already recall what way the Brotherhood questline goes anyway...) And thanks for the tip on the spelling errors!

Also...if I'm allowed to...I wanted to give a shout-out to GamerPoets for his excellent YouTube Skyrim roleplaying series "The Tale of Paxton" (still in progress) - excellent in terms of video, story, and use of game media, and definitely worth a watch!


	20. Windhelm

Dear Alzena,

I know you're there. I could get someone to scry on you – and I may well do that – but I'm not sure I really want to know what you've gotten yourself up to there.

The rebellion sounds like it has taken a turn for the worse. Or separatist movement, however you prefer to call it – I am beyond caring about such things. The funeral dirges have been playing every week for the boys, and a few girls, that they shipped out there. I don't know if you remember Valerius – he was a year or so ahead of you, and I taught munitions to his cohort – but some misguided soul shipped his remains back to his family. Wrapped and embalmed. What a gift. They laid him – or, rather his pieces – to rest in the Arboretum yesterday. And then there are the sundry threats on the Emperor, although that's hardly news. Less bluster and more diplomacy would have made for a more popular ruler. The rebels even sank an enormous supply ship near Solitude. Men like myself run ourselves ragged to keep Cyrodiil intact…and it tears itself to shreds. At times like this, I'm tempted to leave them in the eager claws of the daedra.

I jest. The Emperor's foibles are because he is human, and short-sighted. The daedra are cunning and powerful, more than you know.

I repeat what I told you before – stay out of the fighting. You're probably expecting me to follow that up with _because we have higher concerns_. That's true – we do – we are still bound to protect the Empire from the daedric threat. But I can be candid with you. You are mature now, and so I no longer need to hide behind platitudes. For people like you and me, the temptation of war is far too great. Flee it, or it will consume you.

Whatever you are doing, do not forget your quest. The darker these hours become, the more vulnerable Tamriel becomes to the machinations of the daedra. Tamriel already lost one civilization - those hapless, arrogant Dwemer – it doesn't need to lose another.

Joneleth

* * *

"Hold!" A guardsman barred my way along the only bridge into – and out of – Windhelm. "Vhat breengs yu heer?"

His shrill, clipped words swam meaninglessly around my brain, which – after days on a carriage – had the intellectual capacity of a squash. "What?"

He puffed up his chest, upsetting the torn leather breastplate dangling from his shoulders. "Vhy do yu vish to enter da Old Hold?"

His words began to make sense – some of the villagers up north had talked like this too. Then I frowned. No one had ever stopped me before. "I'm here to see someone for my family." That sounded safe.

The guard let out a disbelieving laugh. "Yu expect me to believe that yur kin sent yu here – all by yourself – vith all these soldiers afoot?" Actually, the Master had. And Astrid. He set his jaw. "Vhy are yu really here, Impeerial?"

 _Impeerial_. He spat it like some sort of malediction. I chafed. What did he know about me? "I don't have anything to do with the Empire." My voice was icier than the chill wind along the stone bridge. "I live here now."

He squinted at me, his straggly blond hair flapping in the wind. "And Mara has vings, eh?" Hoisting up his sagging, unkempt breeches, he cupped his hands to his mouth. "Lund!" His breath stank of ale.

A young man sidled over. His arms were so pale, it was as if he'd never seen the sun. Judging by the grey mist seeping around us, maybe he hadn't. "Caught yurself a bonny fish in yur net, Cap'n Bjorynolf?" His teeth flashed in a grin. "Commander's giving yu a sack-full o' gold for thees one."

I was worth _gold_? He had to be kidding. I wasn't even here to do anything _wrong_. No job, no quest, no daedra – just an errand.

Unless…someone in Solitude _had_ remembered me. By the divines, I could be wanted in all the holds now. Maybe they even had posters of me.

I glanced around. I couldn't run – not with all the soldiers milling around. Beneath us, the rapids rushed along at breathtaking speed, crashing onto mossy, jagged rocks. No jumping then. Summoning? Maybe, but I'd need time.

Lund paced around me, his storm-grey eyes gleaming in the mist. "I say ve let her in and let da Butcher handle her."

I flinched. The Master had impressed upon me – in no uncertain terms – what the Empire did to their enemies. _And to those caught consorting with the daedra_. The dungeons, the racks, even impalement. I whispered a few words of power, hoping the roar of the rushing water would drown it out.

Lund snickered. "Lass doesn't know who da Butcher is!" He gave me a sly leer. "Stalks da pretty little lasses. Feasts on their innards. Divines knows what else he does vith them."

The watchtower bell rang the midmorning hour. _Clong_ … _clong_ …. It wasn't until its tenth strike that I realized that he wasn't threatening to throw me into the brig.

I let the summoning go.

"If it verent for this war," swore Bjorynolf, "ve'd have snared him by now and put his head on da block." He sounded personally responsible.

"It's tough to catch a professional who works from the shadows," I sympathized.

He looked at me strangely. "Yur a queer one." Seizing a water-stained book, he etched out something in blocky, uneven letters, and then tore out the page and handed it to Lund. "Bear this to Jorlief."

With a salute, Lund sped off. Bjorynolf pointed precariously close to the edge of the bridge. "Sit there, and no fleeing, Impeerial."

I sat, spray from the river seeping through my robes and into my leathers. This was going to be a long morning.

Bjorynolf settled himself across from me and sipped something from a waterskin. His eyes were bloodshot, like the Master's. He had a map – like Astrid's – but smaller, and more ragged, with its own X's and arrows, and he kept running his weathered fingers along it.

My gaze wandered towards the city. Row after row of stately, slanted roofs stretched as far as the eye could see until they were swallowed up by the mist. Even through the mist, I could make out intricate stone latticework and crumbling, ancient arches. No wonder Bjorynolf had called it the "Old Hold". A twinge of familiarity hit me. It could easily have been as big as the capital – or maybe I'd just been away too long. Further off, the winding walls gave way to an enormous mountain, threatening to stretch all the way up to Sovngarde. I hadn't seen a mountain that high since…the time I'd gone to visit Azura.

At that thought, the pendant hidden beneath my robes blossomed into warmth. Tranquillity settled over me. I was safe. Protected. Now how far I strayed, the Lady would protect me, and no harm could come to me while I was under her gentle watch.

A tear – of all things – came to my eye. Brushing it aside, I stretched a bit, then gazed out at the water tumbling over the rocks.

Suddenly, the clop of a horse's hooves beat across the bridge.

Bjorynolf leaped up, his meagre sword drawn. "Hold!"

The rider was panting, his snowy hair frenzied. "Message for Ulfric," he gasped, between breaths.

Ulfric? As in Ulfric Stormcloak, the leader of the rebellion? I swallowed. No wonder Festus had said it was the wrong time to go to Windhelm.

Bjorynolf narrowed his eyes. "I'll bear eet to him."

The rider shook his head. "His ears only."

"Stable's outside da city," Bjorynolf retorted.

The rider's jaw quaked. "Talo's blud, thees can't vait!"

Bjorynolf crossed his arms. "What's da hurry?"

"Da – " The rider glanced at me, as if noticing me for the first time. He lowered his voice. "Haddring and Gar, sir."

"By the Nine." Clenching his teeth, Bjorynolf crumpled up his map and hurled it into the river. It caught on one of the rocks and thrashed about. He wheeled towards the rider. "Vhat are yu vaiting for?"

The rider gave him a sombre nod. "Skyrim for da Nords."

"Skyrim for da Nords," Byrnolf repeated absently.

Spurring his horse, the rider rode straight through the engraved archways leading into the city.

Bjorynolf set to marching around me, glowering, as if he were a dragon guarding his hoard. From inside the city, a blacksmith's hammer clanged.

At length, Lund came slithering back. "Commander says to let her in."

Bjorynolf stopped his marching and gaped. " _What?_ "

Lund shot him a meaningful look. "Commander say to let her go vherever she vants. No interfeerence."

Furrowing his brows, Bjorynolf stepped aside. A mammoth could have moved faster. "Yu heard him."

I rose, and brushed the mud off my robes. They were sopping wet. "Thanks." Resisting the urge to run, I took slow, even strides towards the city, as if I were disappearing into a crowd after a job.

"Impeerial," Bjorynolf called out. I turned back. "Vindhelm's gates are open now. Once da enemy gets vithin a day's march, those gates vill be shut tighter than a dark elf's arse. Better figure out vhat side yur on, and soon."

Anger rose in me. Now that I was out of his grasp, I let it surface. "I told you, I don't have anything to do with the Empire."

"Yur a traitor, then?" His pasty skin stretched into a snarl. "Ulfric dusn't like Impeerials, and he dusn't like traitors."

I bristled. I wasn't a traitor…was I? There was that ship, in Solitude – which the Master had heard about, somehow – and I _had_ quit my apprenticeship without leave. Maybe that was insubordination. The Master seemed to think that the Emperor was sending battalions after me, anyway.

Why had the fates cursed me by making me look so…Imperial? It wasn't fair. I didn't even know my ancestors, and they'd branded me for life as someone who kowtowed to the Emperor. Why couldn't things be like they were at the sanctuary, where no one asked you where you were from, and only cared what you did? "I'm just here to see someone," I said, inadequately. "I'll be gone before nightfall."

Bjoyrnolf's scowl deepened. "If yur lying," he swore, "it'll be yur head on da block."

* * *

In the city square, beneath a plaque chiselled with _WULF RTH OF ATM RA, REIGN D 480-533_ , a heap of refuse was burning. Scrawny, wind-weathered women and children huddled around it, beneath cloth tarpaulins that flapped in the chill wind.

Gratefully, I wrung out my cloak by the fire, trying not to gag on the stench, and, squinting in the mist, reread the Master's letter.

It nagged at me. The Master sounded as if he _enjoyed_ killing. But, that would be…too close to home. He wasn't in the Brotherhood; he served the Emperor. I lived in a new land, had a new job, a new family. I had the dremora. And yet…this invisible thread still seemed to bind us all together.

The Master had rarely spoken of fighting. Sure, he sent me with the other students to the weaponsmaster, but he never inquired how I was doing – although he _should_ have, rather than leaving me here completely helpless. He never even handled weapons around me, except for Dagon's dagger, which he wouldn't even touch with his bare hands. But his letter suggested that he knew more about fighting than he let on. Teaching _munitions_?

I thought back to one night, a couple seasons after I'd been apprenticed to him, when his commander "friend" had come by his study and told him to make ready for a journey. The Master had given him that exhausted, bloodshot look. "Don't do this to me, Decimus." He didn't sound frightened. He sounded…beaten.

Decimus's mouth curled. "If I had my way, men like you would be in the dungeons, where you belong." The Master bristled. "But the Emperor needs you, and so do I." He gestured at the shelves piled high with leather books, the embroidered rugs, the tower. "I assume all of this is for something?"

The Master rose from his wooden desk. His face was set, as if it were steel. His back was straight, as if he were controlling every muscle in his body. But his voice betrayed…anticipation. "When does the battalion leave?"

"That's the spirit." Decimus clapped a hand on his shoulder. "We won't make you wait, Joneleth," he said grimly. He turned towards me. I was holding a silver tray, with a decanter of cyrodilic brandy, which Decimus hadn't touched. He squinted at me, as if he were examining a horse for sale at the market. "She doesn't look the fighting type." Doubt crept into this voice. "You aren't trying to finagle your way out of our agreement?"

The Master's eyes flashed. "She'll do the job just fine," he said. "She'll do it better than those whippersnappers whose fathers buy their command for them."

I was so stunned, I almost dropped the tray. The Master had actually said something _nice_ about me.

But…Decimus was right. I wasn't the "fighting type". Would I be able to do whatever he wanted me to do? And…what _did_ he want me to do? The Master taught me potions, the Master taught me runes – but he never told me _why_. He never told me what would happen next. Only that we had to protect the Empire from the daedra.

And Decimus didn't seem like he had come to chat about daedra.

Shaking the rest of the water out of my cloak, I peered through the mist. A seemingly endless queue of people clutching bags and baskets snaked towards a tiny vegetable stall. From here, they looked like ghosts. Hale, hardy men bore a coffin on their shoulders, and an old woman trailed behind them, screaming and tearing at her ashen hair. Atop the city walls, men were prowling about – some, staring out beyond the river towards the vast snowplains; others, huddling around fires; still others, hammering away at strange contraptions.

None of them were wearing Imperial colors.

A banner was fluttering from one of the watchtowers, lettered in rich blue ink. I squinted. It said, _Skyrim for the Nords_.

Belatedly, I realized that people were staring. Fear. Suspicion. Hate.

Now was a good time to put Astrid's favourite motto to good use – _get in, do the job, get out_. Babette had said I'd find the kid at the Arentino residence. In a city this size, that could be anywhere. I'd have to ask someone where that was – preferably, not a guard.

I followed my nose to an inn. Even though it was midmorning, it was packed, and reeked of unwashed bodies and week-old food. Holding my breath, I made my way to the counter, where a middle-aged man was bent over a logbook, jabbing a pen at the bottom of an inkwell.

"It helps if you add vinegar to it," I suggested.

He looked up. He had a ginger stubble on his face, and dark circles under his eyes. "Wouldn't make any difference to what I'm writing here." He scratched out a couple more numbers, then set the pen down. "You on winter holiday from the College already?"

The College? Right, the robes. At least he hadn't figured out that I was from the Academy. "They let me out early." No plans to elaborate on how _that_ had happened.

He raised his eyebrows. "Must be foolish or desperate to come down here at a time like this. Unless it's gotten as bad up there as they say, with that orb and all. Is it true the Empire really raised up spirits to attack the College?"

"I…uh…don't know." The innkeeper gave me a funny look. "Maybe it happened after I left," I said quickly.

He clucked his tongue. "Heard they even got the archmage."

"What a loss." Maybe someday I _would_ be able to drop by the College again.

Nodding sympathetically, he reached for a mug. "So, what suits a budding mage's fancy? Ale?"

"No, thanks." Nazir had told me that ale interfered with the job. The Master never touched it, either.

"Finer tastes, I reckon?" He pursed his lips. "Might have a bottle or two of Honningbrew mead in the cellar. But not much else. Not these days. But, thank the divines, we have ale. Nothing worse than a soldier with a dry whistle."

They could all drink themselves into a stupor, for all I cared. Starting with the guards. I leaned forward. "I'm actually looking for the Arentinos. Know where they live?"

All traces of mirth dropped from his face, and his voice turned to ice. "Arentinos? This some kind of sick joke?"

Now what I had done? These people were touchier than Festus's glowing runes. If only Babette had just given me a regular job – it would have been so much easier. I took a deep breath. "I have a message for them. Could you just show me the way?"

That cold suspicion was still in his eyes. "Only place you'll find them is the Hall of the Dead."

Necromancy was _not_ an option. "Are there no…survivors?"

"No," he snapped. "Not here." He stroked his stubble thoughtfully. "No one of age, anyway. Miss Shatter-Shield…." His voice broke off, and he put his face in his hands. "Divines, it's so fresh, I keep forgetting, it's as if she's still here…." Blinking, he rubbed at his eyes. "Damn that Butcher. Miss Shatter-Shield was the sweetest, nicest young lady you'd ever meet." He jabbed the pen back at the inkpot.

"The Arentinos?" I reminded him.

"Right, the Arentinos." He shook his head again. "Miss Shatter-Shield – when she was still with us, divines rest her soul – she told me that their son ran away from that orphanage he was sent to. Lad doesn't know what's good for him. At least he'll get a full belly there. We'll be lucky if we get potatoes to tide us through the winter."

"Can you tell me where he is?" I pressed.

"That I can." He sighed. "Maybe you can talk some sense into him. Mister Arentino was a decent Nord. Not the easiest man to get on with, but he showed up at the Temple of Talos every Morndas, and, come harvest time, he sprung for mead for the whole town. Even old Silda got a bottle. It's a right pity his son seems hell-bent on turning himself into a street beggar." He looked down at an array of empty bottles. "I'd check in on him myself, but I've enough on my hands with all these folk straggling in from the countryside. Bellies to feed, and no way for them to pay. Empire burnt all their fields." He gave me an uncertain glance. "No offense, mind you."

"None taken." The Empire, again. Hastily, I made to go.

"One other thing." He fidgeted. "Not sure if I should be spreading this, but…."

I wasn't sure I wanted to know. "But what?"

"Miss" – his voice shook, and he steadied it – "Miss Shatter-Shield said that she spied him doing some strange ritual."

Good. That was what Babette had said. The Sacrament.

He leaned towards me. "Like those dark elves do down in the Grey Quarter."

I froze. Dark elves. Grey Quarter? That meant…Dunmer. For the second time since setting foot onto Windhelm's soil, my memory drifted back to that mountaintop, and the priestess of Azura. Her slate grey skin, her crimson eyes – not unlike the dremora's, now that I thought about it. Like they were cousins, or cousins of cousins. _Azura watches over our people_ , she had said.

Dark elves. Rituals. Could that mean that they had a temple of Azura?

I drew in a breath. "Do you know anything about the dark elves?"

"Only that if you know what's good for you, you stay out of the Grey Quarter. They don't take kindly to strangers."

My heart sped up. I'd never seen how ordinary people…worshipped…daedra. I'd been to their shrines, I'd touched their relics – but I wagered that even the Master had never been to their ceremonies. Here was a chance to see what I'd spent years studying.

Maybe I'd even write back to him about it. That would serve him right for not telling me about his own trip to her shrine. _Heh_.

And _Azura_. I closed my eyes and indulged in the memory of that night on the mountaintop, when she had embraced me in her love and light, her beauty kindling a fire in me glimmering with all the myriad colours of the breaking dawn.

I _was_ still on a quest. At least, the Master seemed to think so. It only made sense that I should investigate.

"Do you know where they do their rituals?" I tried to keep the excitement out of my voice.

"Azura's the matron of dawn and dusk," he informed me, his chin high. "Though I reckon you get your book-learning at Winterhold."

"Not about Azura," I encouraged him. Not to say no one there _knew_ about Azura – but that was another matter.

He perked up. "In the time of the old kings, they did their rites at sunup and sundown. But, these days, only at night. Before dawn. When no one's looking. Revyn Sadri pays the captain to march his watch the other way."

At night, then. Maybe this trip to Windhelm wouldn't be so bad, after all. I could find the kid, have a chat…and then collect my real reward in the Grey Quarter later.

His eyes were flashing with excitement. "Word is that they're fixing for something special tonight. Captain came in with twice his usual 'pay'. Not that I'm griping – a wise man doesn't look too deeply into where the septims come from." He pursed his lips. "Or maybe they'll call them _ulfrics_ after this war's done. Can you imagine? _Three ales, coming right up – that'll be two ulfrics, sir._ " Laughing at his own joke, he reached for a grimy bowl. "So, what _can_ I get you? You can't leave without eating something. Potato stew, potato stew, or potato stew?"

* * *

The afternoon shadows were lengthening by the time I found my way to the Arentino house. Fortunately, the lock had been smashed, and the oaken door hung askew. The house felt…deserted. Heavy, polished shelves stood empty. A gilded setee was overturned – but without any pillows. A dusty lace curtain hung half-torn over a real glass window. I glanced out. Clouds were gathering overhead, and the soldiers on the walls had lit beacons. Smoke from the beacons was filling the house.

Wait. That wasn't right. I sniffed again. The hearth was untouched, but the house definitely smelled of smoke. And…something rancid, as if the Arentinos had come home to rot.

Stowing my robes in my pack, I climbed the stairs, and was hit by a wave of force so palpable, I almost fell.

Candles were everywhere. It wasn't a room, but an inferno. Black smoke swirled up towards stained glass windows. If there had been furniture, it was long gone. In its place, a circle had been inscribed onto the floor, and peppered with more candles; inside it was a wobbly pentagram.

A skeleton leered up from the pentagram. Not fresh blood, like we worked with, but only bones. Dry, crunchy, old bones. Some kind of offal was next to it. It stank. I tried not to think about what Lund had said about the Butcher cutting out girls' innards.

And then there was the kid. He was slumped over the skeleton, his pale hands wrapped around a kitchen cleaver, stabbing lacklustrely at the offal, which sloshed about. "Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me," he chanted hoarsely. "For the sins of the unworthy must be bap…bap…" – he glanced at a paper – "baptized in blood and fear."

This was real. This kid had done it for real.

He sipped some water from a tin cup. "Sweet Mother, sweet Mother…." He coughed, and then resumed stabbing. "Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me…."

I stepped forward, my boot striking the floor. His knife clattered down. "It worked?" He threw himself at me. "It worked! It really worked! The Mother's here!"

The smoke was giddying me. _Ask him why he has called me_ , a voice in the back of my mind urged me. That was strange. But, why not? "Why have you called her?"

His eyes took on a wistful look, and he rubbed his nose with his sleeve. Then he scrunched up his face. " _Grelod_." He spat that out with so much bile, he could have been talking about Dagon. "I want to get rid of Grelod."

So he did have a job for us. I took a deep breath, and then gave up on trying to clear my head. It was too smoky, and the stench of the offal was getting to my head. _Be professional_ , I chided myself. I surveyed him. He was half my height, and scrawny. Had we ever had a client his age? Did it matter? Death didn't discriminate. I crouched down to his level. "Who's Grelod?"

"Our headmistress." He coughed again in the smoke. "At our…you know." He stared down at his shoes. The toes were worn out, but they had fine metal buckles. "Our school. They call her Grelod the Kind. But she's not kind. She's terrible. To all of us."

The innkeeper hadn't mentioned a school. I frowned. "What kind of school?"

"You know." He hung his head. "The kind of school they send you to when you don't have anyone to take care of you."

It was as if he'd dumped ice water on me. All of a sudden, I wanted to be anywhere else.

"My mom and dad…." He burst into tears again and threw himself back at me. Awkwardly, I wrapped my arms around him. Astrid hadn't warned me about this part of the job.

Aeons seemed to pass as he sat there, sobbing. Tears soaked into my leathers. Eventually, he let go and wiped his eyes. "I really miss them."

He could miss them all he wanted. "They aren't coming back."

His little face hardened, and if looks could kill, I'd be on my way to Sithis. "I know."

I shrugged. "The sooner you get over it, the better."

His face darkened. "You sound just like Grelod."

 _Me?_ "Maybe this Grelod is smarter than you think."

"No she isn't." His voice was shrill. "She's evil. Everyone hates her. She's _so_ mean!"

I turned back to the circle. He'd clearly put all he had into this. He'd more or less done the ritual…right. Well enough to catch Astrid's attention, anyway. And the Mother's. Now that I thought about it…Babette hadn't said who sent me – Astrid or the Mother. For some reason, it bothered me.

I turned back to the kid. "And you want to get rid of her because she's mean?"

He nodded vigorously. "Yes, ma'am."

 _Ma'am_?

The house may have been bare, but the wood flooring was even and polished. Antique, ornate swirls had been carved into the bannisters. Old money. This kid was used to being taken care of. "Then what?"

He looked at me quizzically. "Then, what?"

I let out an exasperated breath. "So you get rid of Grelod. What then? Who's going to look after you? How're you going to eat?"

He chewed on his lip. "Dunno."

No, of course he hadn't thought of that. Because he'd had his parents taking care of him. Apparently, Grelod hadn't done as good of a job as _our_ headmistress in letting him know that, without her, he'd be skeever fodder. "The world's harsh," I told him. "You'll never make it on your own. Just be grateful you have a roof over your head, and food to eat."

He stiffened. Outside, sleet pinged against the glass. "I thought you were supposed to help people."

This kid was infuriating. "I _do_ ," I told him. "That's how I get my place to live with my family. It's my job."

He scratched his head and stewed over that. Suddenly, his eyes lit up. "I know! You can take me with you!" He clapped his hands together. "Please, please, please, please, please!"

"No!" I leapt back so far that I knocked over a couple candles. Hastily, I blew them out. "Absolutely not. No. By the Eight, no. By Talos, no!"

"Why not?" he whined.

"Because." What would we do with a kid at the sanctuary? What did you do with kids, anyway? There'd been younger children in our dormitory, of course, but I'd never paid much attention to them.

"I'll do anything you want." Gods, he was loud. He grabbed my hand. "I can't go back. They'll find out. I'll get in trouble. Grelod…she'll _kill_ me."

That seemed fair, all things considered. "They won't find out," I assured him. It wasn't as if he'd botched a job. Not like me.

"But what if they do?" He clutched harder. " _Pleeeeease_?"

Shaking him off, I paced the circle, the pentagram flickering in the candlelight. I didn't have the authority to induct anyone into the family – did I? Or was that why the Mother had called me here? The kid had shown initiative, and talent. Most adults didn't have the nerve to perform the Sacrament, and he'd even dredged up some bones.

I thought back to that night with Astrid in the lodge, the night that had changed my life. The night that she – or the Mother – had saved me. "The way you join the family," I told him, "is that you do a job."

"Okay." He looked at me eagerly. "What kind of job?"

"You…." It wouldn't come out. Why was I so prudish? I pointed to the skeleton.

He grimaced. "Work in the Hall of the Dead?"

" _No_." Grabbing the knife, I mimicked slicing it along the skeleton's neck.

His eyes went wide.

 _Kill or be killed_. That had been the rule, that night in the lodge. For all I knew, the Sacrament had succeeded, and the Mother had already marked Grelod.

The room darkened. The Mother was hungry. I turned to the kid. "You already have a target."

He scrunched up his face in disgust. "No!"

 _No?_ "Why not?"

"Because," he stammered.

"Because?" I prompted.

"Because it's _wrong_!"

He wasn't making any sense at all. But he was new – of course he'd be hesitant. I'd also been squeamish, the first time I'd gone for Narfi. The Mother probably saw potential in him; he just needed time. I bent back down to his level. "You wanted _me_ to do it."

He folded his arms. "That's different."

"How?" I asked.

"It just is."

I took his hands and wrapped them back around the knife, then pointed at the offal. "You were doing it before," I reminded him. "You can do it again."

He threw the knife down the stairs as hard as he could.

 _Kill or be killed._ The smoke swirled around me. If he wouldn't kill…. He was frail, and pale. I didn't even need a knife to take care of him. I could do it with my own bare hands. I'd never done that before.

He edged away.

I situated myself between him and the doorway. "Are you going to do it?"

"N…n…no." He crossed his arms firmer, but he was shaking. "You can't make me."

I pounced, and held him down in the center of the circle. He screamed, and I clapped his mouth shut. He started kicking like a wild calf. Gods, he was so slippery. It was like trying to hold down an eel. Suddenly, pain shot up my arm. He'd bit me. I slapped him, hard. He stilled.

My blood was pounding. This was Astrid's fault. She'd kept me out of the field too long. "It's you or Grelod." _Yes_ , the voice urged me.

"Don't hurt me." He sounded so small. "Don't hurt me. Please. Don't hurt me."

His torso was soft and yielding. I _could_ use my dagger. It would be like carving a freshly roasted piece of meat. I pulled it out. "Death can be a healer."

He stared back up at me. "You're worse than Grelod."

Astrid must have done this too. Surely, not everyone she invited to the family could – or would – carry out her orders. Maybe, she didn't want anyone to succeed. It took away her kill.

I ran it along his neck.

"I changed my mind." He was sobbing, little sobs. "I'll forget all about this. I swear. I'll go back to the school…to the orphanage. Just don't hurt me."

He was right there, in my hands. In the middle of a godsforsaken sacrificial circle. _Kill or be killed_ , the voice whispered.

But…this would be the first time I'd taken down a target without Astrid telling me to.

If I started now, would I be able to stop?

Babette hadn't told me not to. She'd just told me to make the _right choices_. And I'd botched up the job before. Wasn't the right choice to keep him from running away and telling everyone?

The sleet pounded harder outside.

"Fine," he whispered. "Fine. I'll do it."

My hands were sweating. "Do what?"

"Grelod." He swallowed. "I'll do it. I'll kill Grelod. I promise. Just don't hurt me."

Right. Grelod. That was what this was about. The contract was on her, not the boy. He'd performed the rite. He'd evoked the Mother. He was our _client_. I kicked at the floor.

Maybe the Mother was testing _me._

Shaking, I sheathed my dagger. He scooted into the corner, as far from me as he could.

He was too small to wield a sword, too weak to shoot a bow, and though he looked like he might have a future in the arcane arts, he wasn't there yet. _Like me, when I showed up at the sanctuary._ I pushed that thought aside. "How?"

He was still shaking. "How what?"

I tried to picture this Grelod. A grey bun? A hooked nose? Hairs poking out of her chin? Or maybe just a stern, bony woman in a faded dress, like our headmistress. "How are you going to…do the job?"

"Uh…." He wrapped his arms around himself, as if he were freezing. "Dunno."

Sighing, I fished through my pack and tossed him a satchel.

He darted aside, as if it were a pit viper. "What's that?"

"Herbs." More properly, nightshade. "Put them in her tea…or whatever she drinks. Make sure she's the only one who drinks it. Wash your hands well afterwards."

He nodded imperceptibly. "Then you'll come get me?" His voice was so quiet, I could barely hear him over the wind outside.

How did it work? I wracked my brain to recall what Astrid had said that night. "If you do it, and the Mother decides you're worthy, she'll send someone for you."

His eyes lit up as I said _the Mother_.

Suddenly, his face fell. "What if she doesn't think I'm w…worthy?"

I shrugged. "Then you'll have gotten rid of Grelod. That's what you want, isn't it?"

He nodded uncertainly.

The smoke and congealed blood rose from the pentagram, mingling with my blood. _Kill_. I had to get out of there. If he wasn't going to be my target, I had to find one.

"What if I can't do it?" he asked, in a very quiet voice.

 _Kill_. I pointed at the pentagram. "You have to now, you understand? You don't have a choice."

"Yes, ma'am." His voice was weak.

 _Kill_. "And put out those candles before they start a fire." Then I turned and walked out, before I lost control.

I stalked up and down the streets of Windhelm, as the last of the twilight faded into darkness. I had been so stupid, to let that opportunity slip. There was a killer loose in the city – no one would have missed a kid. Not with all the fighting going on. How long was Nazir going to take with those papers? And what did Astrid need papers for anyway? Couldn't she send me on another job?

A soldier ambled by, swaying slightly and reeking of drink. Maybe I could join the army. The Empire or the resistance – it didn't matter. Astrid wasn't choosy about sides. Either way, I'd have targets. That's what you did in a war, right? The Master had fought. He didn't have any right to deprive me of that.

Hells, I didn't even have to enlist, there were so many bodies littering the countryside. I could just peel the cloak off one and pretend to be a soldier.

Or…better yet… the Butcher. _Stalks the young lasses. Chops out their innards_. I hesitated for a moment, as if a mountain breeze were clearing my mind, telling me, _don't do this_. And the, the fog set back in. It didn't matter if the target was a man or a woman, young or old. They were all the same. Gifts to Sithis. The Mother didn't care.

It was dark, and my black leathers blended into the starless night. The walls were still crawling with soldiers, but they were staring out across the river, not into the city. There was no sign of a watch. I stumbled along the deserted streets until I came to a graveyard. There was the scent of fresh dirt, and a keening sound. "Nilsine," a young woman wailed. "Nilsine."

Thank the divines, a young woman. I glanced around. Was I allowed to do this? That was ridiculous – this was my life, this was my calling. This was who I was now. And the dremora would approve. Oh, would he approve. He loved the scent of blood. He would draw me into his arms after a job, tell me, _you smell of Oblivion_. He would be thrilled. A whole new rush went through my body. I grasped my dagger firmly, confidently. So different from the person I was before. Then I crept up behind the woman. In the wan light of a candle, I could see brown curls spilling over her pale neck.

It was so easy.

A bone chill went through me, chilling the pounding of my blood, as if a dread wind had suddenly blown in from the snowfields. _My child_ , it whispered to me. _My child_. I stood there holding the dripping knife, speechless at the words I'd never heard before.

It brushed against me again, wrapping itself in the blood and things best left unspoken on my leathers. Then, as quickly as it had come, it whirled off into the stormclouds. Far off, thunder rumbled. I stared into the black sky, yearning for it to return. It didn't. Rain fell, and I realized I was standing alone in the graveyard, over a body, surrounded in gore, holding a knife. I darted into an alley and cleaned myself as best I could, rubbing my hands and leathers with mud and fistfuls of snow. The snow turned a deep red, and then black. What a mess.

I threw my robes over my leathers, hoping they wouldn't stain. I could wash up in the river. Giving the graveyard a wide berth, I crept back to the square, the beacons from the walls casting red shadows along the street.

Soldiers were blocking the archways leading out of the city. No matter. I could wash up in the inn, instead. No one would suspect me – they had a killer on the loose. Besides, the road wasn't safe at night.

That stinking fire was still burning in the square. From under the lean-tos, fearful, suspicious eyes were trained on me. Ignoring them, I trudged back up to the inn. Outside the inn, a tall, robust man with dark brown hair and deep black eyes was waiting for me.

It was Nazir.

* * *

xXxGhostRiderxXx: Thanks for the encouragement! I agree about first person. In this case, the proverbial "flawed narrator" seemed the way to go. (Alzena isn't flawed, is she? ;) ) Thanks for the reference too – will definitely look through it!

And...sorry about taking four months to update! :O


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